I miss you,

 I really do,

This magical air I breathe when I write,

Music flowing through my veins,

Thoughts jumbled now sorted,

I miss this feeling of being in control,

Lately I have been more like the monster I promised not to become,

The author who wrote so ill of promises making some herself and failing herself miserably,

On these occasions I wonder if words have meaning or are they just said because one can speak,

First and the last,

One and only

You spoke about pace but do you have one of your own 

Or are you just blowing carelessly with the wind,

I know it is your philosophy to move with the wind,

But you always had a rhythm,

Just as Harry said, you really are dumb without your glasses,

Making rash decisions and becoming so sensitive,

Who are you?

Dear old she said but the echoes are loud,

She has forgotten her previous perception,

And yes she blames hormones and the shiny sparkly things in life,

But in the end she will have to take responsibility for her actions,

After all, she is the only main character,

And life has no sequel,

It is just one big book.