Was it the sound of my loud thoughts that troubled me?
Was it the echo - the chirping - of her voice?
Was it the image of her, her.
Was it the fable of her?
Was it her for not existing?
That loud, chirping-echoing voice; the loud thought -
Was is her, her, her who does not exist.

Being so hopeless in romance, by now;
I would have thought I'd be in love.
I should have found her.

Her.

She is beautiful;
I find her beautiful;
She finds me beautiful for finding her beautiful.
I think she is beautiful.
She is beautiful.
She is;

She has a name.
I want to know her name.
I am screaming, in agony, her name.
What is her name?
I want to know her name.

She has no name,
But she is special - she is;
There is something about her smile - her laughter;
And her smile, again - there is something about that smile;
It's beautiful.
I love staring at her, catching her gazing at me - she smiles;
I love that smile; I love that she is smiling.

But who is she;
Who is... her?
There is no her.
She does not exist.
She exists.
I have not met her, yet;
I have not. I want to. But I have not - not yet;

In this loud silence;
The loneliness is loud, it's a disturbance.
Because of her, I miss her;
There is no her.

Not yet.
And the Lonely is loud. It's a landmark;
I am cold, even on the warmest of days; I - I - am cold;
I am cold, because I do not have her.