I don’t think I should write about you,
I think I should keep these thoughts to myself.
No one wants to read about what we once felt.
Is it therapeutic, or does it just make me miss you more?
Never mind, it doesn’t matter—I'm the one who shut that door.
Is what I miss even real, or is longing for you painting us with bliss?

You had the hours I could never find,
I needed silence—you required quick replies,
Patience isn’t promised just because it's implied.
Maybe I crave you because, deep down, I knew it’d never work out.
Your quiet chaos battled my loud catastrophe,
Succumbing to you was a kind of personal blasphemy.

I'm minding my business, I've got things to do,
Yet my skin is tingling, I think I feel you
Do I just ignore it? Do I give into chase?
Either way I know I'm ****** once I see your face

A heartache so close, a whisper so far
Every shadow around me turns to where you are,
I pace this map, acting like I'm fine
But your presence sends electrical shivers down my spine

I said I was done, it was my means of escape
But I've always hit the exit gates just after it's too late,
You see my scratch marks, a residual trail for you how great

I never meant to linger, never meant to be seen,
But you track me like blood, like you know where I'll be,
I loop around my guilt, vault over your grace,
Still caught in your terror radius, heart stuck in this place.