Is my body a ghost to you?
Am I the icy breeze that stirs the air around you?
Only, it's as if you shiver when I pass you.
My eyes, you make such efforts to avoid,
It's as if they were a memory you wish to suppress.
More than I can help,
Each day my gaze falls upon you
and I can see it;
That my face has become like an unwelcome truth,
Such discomfort it brings you
as the light finds its surface.

Do flames rise from my skin?
Has the scent of my smoke
caused you such suffocation
that you must hold your breath when I am near?
Have you seen shame tangled within the curls of my hair?
Disappointment folded within the creases of my clothing?
I don't know what you have found in me,
Or how I have repulsed you so,
Only, that it seems as though you can hardly bare to look at me.

How is it that the beating of my heart has come to remind you
of a knife's edge?
And my very existence has come to cause you such pain.
Have I become nothing more than an empty echo to you?
A sound who's meaning erodes in it's clarity with every reminder
of what it once was?

My words
have always been gentle,
Yet now it seems you wince when I speak,
Have I hurt you?
What is this pain that I have caused you?
How is it that I have filled you with such disgust?

If my body were to fade to nothing,
And if my eyes were to become so well concealed
that they almost became like empty hollows,
If I were to paint my face in shadows,
Would you find your peace then, my love?

If I were to become cold,
With my skin drenched in water,
And If I were to become smooth like marble,
If I were to become an empty rock face,
with no foot holes and no rest space.
Would you find your peace then, my love?

If my heart were to melt,
And I were to exist only where you did not,
If my words were to plummet with the weight of silence,
Could I make you happy then, my love?

I feel sad today,
And I'm finding it quite different to being depressed,
I guess this is what normal people feel like
when they have a not particularly great day,
It's quite nice,
It's a feeling you are connected to,
A feeling that's actually part of you,
It's yours and you can do what you want with it.
It reminds you that you're alive
and that you're effected by the world
instead of dead
and numbed by it.

There are days in these persistent weeks of the year...
When the sky is a block of grey outside the window,
It takes its place with such certainty that even the raindrops will not take their time
to appear on the glass in an attempt to divide it,
Sprawled across the floor with music in my ears I come to the conclusion that
Tom Odell is the only person in this world who understands me.
I hold my legs and cry into my knees
but they never hold me back,
After a while I crawl to the corner of my room,
And sit with my back against the radiator;
Any warmth will do,
And despite my enjoyment of this warmth
I can feel the radiator making dents in my back,
It reminds me of the way each day dents the week with its appearance,
The way it reaches Sunday, battered, bruised and tortured,
But it never stops,
It just carries on
and carries on.
And so maybe the persistence of each week is something to be admired...
But it still hurts
and hurts.

You're so bright,
But your eyes look so tired.
Are you okay?
Who are you in there?

When there are people around you,
You're always smiling,
Always;
So you must cry alone.

If I could, I would share your tears,
Take half of your sadness;
We could share the burden
between us.

I see you hugging yourself
and biting your lip,
Like you're afraid that you might
fall to pieces
if you let go.

When you look away
can you see your troubles there in
the distance?
There outside the window?
There in the doorway?

Please stop crying,
And trying to hide.
Please stop hurting.
Please stop hurting.