It’s funny how I let you carry all my baggage – give it a few pennies
for thought; that’s your allowance to call me a scumbag.

And I might just sip fine wine, with tears pouring, while she makes
a fine whine – but I don’t know which one she wears the best, when
our smiles start to feel stretched out, as a ***** line.

But I should fill my heart, even when I don’t feel love at all; and does
gravity welcome us with open arms, when we start to fall in love –
who will catch us when we fall? And I don’t guarantee as much, the
guarantee of brakes, to stop someone from having another broken
heart.

Yet there’s falling in love, and falling apart – to having an encounter
with love; while making a count of all the times you though it was
true love.

There’s an account to the heart; the interest of heart, the sum of love –
how would you count yourself to be loved, if you only love to count
yourself out? Make your love count!