maybe you're not ready to fall this autumn but you still like me enough to keep me warm. dare i say, it wasn't enough. i tried to reignite the fire from summer '19 but you can't keep up with the same intensity like you used to and i only burned you from getting too close. now i'm left with the cold shoulder—just in time for winter.

maybe we're better off for the summer, when the heat was high but you'd rather play with fire and keep me close than spend it alone. you didn't get burned and even asked for more. we were too caught up in the heat of the moment for sure.

and maybe it felt so good that we jumped too soon and skipped chapters we were supposed to slowly unfold together. now we're not on the same page anymore and that led us to bewilderment. we're in spring but what page are you on?

in the end, i'm the only one taking risks. and before you could, i've already blown the dwindling flame goodbye. i can't give you warmth when you keep being cold. and i can't be your summer when you keep being my winter.

I'm tossin' around,
I feel like a clown,
The world's rollin' over me

I'm goin' to town
I keep fallin' down
This atmosphere's killin' me

It's been a long day
And the night is gettin' longer

I ain't no alley cat
Or a black and white striped robber

I need to go to bed,
So I'll wake up in a morn,
With some pepper in my step,
Feelin' like I've been reborn
But the clock is tickin' by
And the well is gettin' dry
So let's all go to sleep
For a while.

People say writing poems is meant to be about rhyme and rhythm,
But how do I do that if I can’t stay in time with my own life decisions?

I feel as though I need myself a muse,
I think I have it, my own, personal blues.

See, I can’t help feeling down from time to time.
Since when is loving someone a monumental crime?

Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring,
I think you’ll always be my favourite thing.

All I knew is gone now,
I think.

Even the place I slept at night
is barren and strange.
Lights shine in windows,
but inside it is silent.

Even the people I called friends
are as distant to me
as dry spires in a desert,
breaking the shifting horizon.

Even my own beautiful eyes
betray no emotion to me:
only the puzzled gaze
of a stranger I thought I knew.