You make me realize how easily I would insist on a mistake.
Particularly, the one of waiting for you.
Waiting for you to feel something else (other than physical attraction) for me. Waiting until it would get less hard for us to see each other. Waiting for you to loose your fear of relationships and, maybe, build one with me. But that's all in vain, right?
Cause that's only in my head.
And nothing — absolutely nothing — can guarantee the best case scenario, and confirm that things would work out afterwards, when you can't even say that you like me back. I could see myself easily and madly falling in love with you, but that would be worth nothing, wouldn't it? Because you wouldn't take it, A. I know that in my heart.
So I feel frustrated. I feel sad, silly, and hurt.
And that's the poem.
That's what you cause me, A,
so (fucking) easily.