I'd like to look into the sun without squinting.

I cannot lay atop the grass without itching.

And there are some torn up hearts

beyond repair here.

And so there must be a sort of love,

a love without care.


I lied all these lonely nights, my window wide open

just waiting for a lullaby soft enough spoken.

No matter what I hear, the echo is deafening.

How can these hearts go on, the beat still not ending?

Can I get much for my soul

if it still is not living?

There must be a sort of love,

a love without happy.

I felt a little smile creep across my face

when I dreamt I slept next to you,

but soon awoke with heartache.