im too old for the innocent 'what if' that i feel when i see you
being near you is peering into the looking glass of who i've become
your face gives me comfort with an always lingering uneasiness
like the first stretch in the morning : your restless bones being set free but tightened by the cold 6am air; almost satisfied but never contented
im worried that i'll be the one that fades before my feelings have the chance
sickeningly entranced by you when my body is experiencing what my mind should be too
my faith in fate is robbed and im left to hope it returns with a new you, giving me signs my wasted time will be returned, hanging like a shiny remembrance on a shelf in my head