I block off my impulse like a covered ***.
I eat up my cravings like an emaciated fool.
I doubt all of my speech because the sound itself will only leave dust in my valleys.

I elevate the symptoms to a common rot.
I lash all of my feeling into a darkened pool.
I dart my attention to mundane lines of charisma that only lead me to potholes and drunken alleys.

The most beautiful lines are the ones I forgot.
But I can say that I long to unravel you.

And the chances.
I know I never had to play a part
In an addition of a circumstance to gently set us apart:
A desperate attempt to keep the fruit at the start
When all we really do is crave "finale".