It is my habit to walk ever so slow in love.
My heart stirs when another’s begins to waltz,
And it sways only when their heart starts to blaze.
Yet mine burns only after theirs has kindled all the darkness alone.
I walk slowly in love, and no other pace do I know.
So the one who holds my hand must walk —
Twenty kilometers an hour—
While his heart soars upon a jet through the skies. the taste of flight turns bland
When fear clutches at your chest.
And so, I reach each stage too late,
After struggles unseen by those ahead,
Who roll their hearts like a ball on the field
While I drag mine behind me, step by step.
I arrive after days and weeks,
When they have long since devoured their emotions
To pass the time as they wait.
I find them hollow,
Save for a faded melody, a withered crimson rose,
And a weary, lingering tedium.
My heart chuckles, whispers to me,
"In such moments, never arriving
Is better than arriving too late."
Then it tugs me back—
And I return.
