It would be so easy to think,
"What the hell is wrong with me?"
But that demands an answer
To a question that's wrongly delivered.

It's not me. It's we.
It's circumstance.
And by chance, when we meet again
It will all make sense
And God forbid
We'll actually make it out
Alive.

We could've been great.
We still can be.
Just not now.
Not like this.
We knew it wasn't right,
But we couldn't resist.
And now I'm the one with the short stick
****** over by circumstance.
And your **** conscience.
Which makes me love/hate you even more.

I know we had to play this out.
But now I just think about
What could've been.
Even though it's not over.
Just paused.
My insecureties flood my thoughts.
Poison my brain.
With pessimism
And unwarrented pain.

******.
I wish I could stop rhyming
But I can't.
It's engrained in me.
Like you.
And your old soul.
Your books.
Your words.
Your veiw of the world.

I find so wonderfully parrallel to mine.
I wish you were still mine.
We really could've been something.