Things have changed, while I have not,
thoughts will always linger, whereas others
didn't get a turn to. Perhaps I was, I sought,
always busy, looking on the wrong spot.

Though this is not what specifically bothers,
it is my need to be in progress, less as
my need to be in lead of who and what was
the origin of my attention, spread across the halls.

You should be flattered, you'll regret, the walls,
closing in, me, capable, wanting to sing, and leave
this demeaning museum of memories. A naive

form of hope, coating, a lot of time spent quoting,
in snow and rivers of misinterpret signs, floating,
or high above, it doesn't matter, I just **** at love.