I think I see,
That you don't see.
I've already tried to give my say,
But now this limerence is fading.
Now there's to a point,
Where I no longer feel the ligature.
I simply exist to you I feel,
To appear as an accessory.
How do you call it pyrrhic,
When there are few words shared?
How do you call it felicity,
When there's no subject when we talk?
Oh come,
It's no enigma.
History is bound to repeat itself.
And so it will again.
Choose not to heed my cries.
I am only lost after all.
Connected at heart,
But still being ripped apart.
