Why then does it feel like something fated? This thing of ours.
When I don't believe in anything, much less fate. I find myself believing in you.

And yet you're over there. And I'm over here. And that's just the way it is.
Still though. Forgive me I'm compelled. To at the very least, know you.

It's a need. An insatiable desire to an end with a nature that eludes me.
To who's benefit? To who's damnation? Does this meeting serve.

Don't leave me with what could have been without telling me what it is.