You've played marvelously.
You've been what I wanted.
You've maintained the perfect amount
of          disconnection
of          apathy
of          nonchalance
and       disinterest

And it has driven me mad.
I've been writing songs about you.
You've got me the perfect kind
of          obsessed
of          committed
of          infected
and       controlled

I mean, don't get me wrong:
My rhetoric gives the false impression
That I'm not enjoying this immensely.
It's been a long time since anyone moved like you.

I could accuse you of cheating
But only in embitterment
Only because I don't want to be drowned
In rules I don't remember.

There's something tragic here.
But it's the perfect kind
of          adversity
of          affliction
of          infelicity

Of tragedy.