The Moving Finger writes; 
and, having writ
Moves on: 
nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to 
cancel half a line
Nor all thy tears
wash out a word of it.

Rubáyát of Omar Khayyám L.I.

Slowly learning to pace myself.
In the event, I might manage to know myself.
Hidden from you, from me too...
Not like I decided to. 
Most things with me 
are unplanned.

It's just an ease on my cold heart.
You are such fire. 
Pardon my cold.
If it's distance, then I'd rather fall away.
I don't maintain pace as long i should, yet you do deserve me
(i do too)... *pause* 

Is this an aim to be better or am I lying to myself?