Under those sudden eruptions of curses I see more than just that of romances and giddiness.
At those moments, hatred paints your anger-struck loveliness to whatever the brain wants,
because times like that make him think that he rules over me. It's a spur.
Understandably jotted down on the a many last nerves I have for you.
The annoyance of a droning fly is your voice at my mind,
but a symphonic whisper to my beat that can't help but enclose the echo of yours inside.
I dread you skipping away nonchalantly, except the Times when you act as a boomerang; coming back to We and leaving I in the past like all the rest of our barking.
Like a team trying to win a championship trophy.
But who needs a trophy when We have each other?