It almost happened.
I was almost good enough for him.
He almost took responsibility, our magnet pieces of love almost gathered,
Before the scene got all dim.

I never knew this would be my lesson,
In a closed book, an endless waiting session...
Now, the page turns on me and you,
The story is about to end, not with a goodbye, with the almost, in a blurry view...

One cannot unlove someone they once loved
It's not possible to take their love back to themselves
They cannot pour that leftover love to someone else
Neither to themselves
The burden of carrying your love like you're carrying a heavy dead body all around...

A bad suprise no one wants to face
Is that loss and grief and their way of being cumulative, flooding in from the space
The weight of pain is not just for that one knee hurting race
Mourning is for all the potential love you have ever lost without a trace
It stings so hard that it's beyond our comprehension, out of pace
The only thing mind can do is to replay the past, to chase
Trying to see the grace in the moldy disgrace
The bittersweet effort of settling the case
Though we are aware we are not who we used to be, as clear as ace
Even if we stand in the same old place

You're on your own again,
Take a walk on that endless green glen.

It snows heavy over our missing puzzle pool.
I need some fresh air for my burning young heart, for it to cool.

That blindfolded searching, turns into a flu
What would it take to hop on that time machine, making it all undo,
To feel the stillness when the erasure happens to that stuck tattoo?

It hurts my chest when i realize one more lie, the more i find
Cannot even drink five bottles of Baileys to drink you out my mind
The last lesson branch i must hold on tightly is our bond and that it was glorified...

Suffering is not poetic now.
It's just a pressure, aching in your throat that you have to bow.
"Things get better", that's what i hear, i hope it is a true vow.
I realized i have some fresh wrinkles on my forehead,
Is it because all that happened or should i put the blame to the habit of my eyebrows?

Silly 5 year old me, such a great pity,
For him to think he could fill the deep hole carefully,
By pleasing forbidden bodies, intuition was screaming for him to flee,
No danger sign warned against transformation into something he never ever meant to be.

When lights of our stars collide,
Only for it to provide some lust and a bit of pride.
All of the storm and misery we set aside,
Touching others just caused more times that we lied.
All heavy chests that yearn for love suffer from this viral infection although hardspun masks try to hide.

The saviour that quiet boy longed for decades and years,
Was all along his future mirror stepping into being twenty-something after a billion tears.
The one that would give him all the love he had ever feared,
Was his own bleeding heart caged in reseda - at least now for me, it cheers.

Every translation is an act of betrayal.
That pain in your semantical chest, such a precious tutorial.
Creating a new product just for the target or remaining loyal,
A choice of yours, to be a bridge, to be medial...

It got too old, to be stuck between target and source,
Sometimes it flows as a river, and then all eyes can sense the force.
Regaining what was buried under your soul, the skopos,
And maybe that's why you found strength to delete those photos.

While robots translate texts without feeling,
Nida created what we call the equivalent effect, for months; he was trying.
Creativity is a sick man now, bleeding from coughing,
Perhaps dictionary cycles exist to be completed.