talk to me.
i've had enough of this silence.
i've never felt so alone in my life,
i've never seen a darkness so deep.
who knew that emptiness could be so heavy;
i suppose, i owe you an apology.
please.
if every next word could be final,
if every next touch could be the last time,
i hope that i see you when i fall asleep.
who knew that even a sinner's worth saving;
i guess, we're about to find out.
if i wait for you at the brink
will you talk to me?

it's deafening to the point
of your own heartbeat
crashing against your eardrums,
a wasp nest inside your head
buzzing incessantly,
stepping into the spotlight
that you try to deny it,
but it pushes you into the dark instead.
it's maddening to the point
of no longer being able
to separate your own voice
from the crowd.
it's so ******* loud,
spreading, feeding off of your fear,
and you know, deep down,
that someday it just might win.

"it was never about love."
those were your last words
before walking out of the same door
that i swore to keep closed ever since.
it was never about wanting more,
nor was it about not getting enough from me,
but i somehow still think it's my fault.
in the end, what difference would it make
if there was someone else to take the blame?
as you managed to put into words so well,
we were merely two people, stuck together,
pretending to be a pair,
and now that's all i can think about.
it was never about love.

breaking into another's memory, fleeting,
escaping through someone else's eyes,
like a tower of separate fragments and pieces,
tumbling down before it can ever rise.
and the victory lap isn't sweet, but drunken,
and everyone stumbles around in a daze,
'cause it seems like we've only just gotten started,
but it's already time to be replaced.
someone says "that's life for you, darling,
with its highs and lows, with its frowns and smiles",
and it seems like we're all just a memory, fleeting,
escaping through someone else's eyes.

there's an echo of voices still talking downstairs,
conversations and laughter, pouring out through the doorway.
everything's temporary, in the right time and place
our meetings and partings all tell the same story.
in a moment of sadness there's a sweet aftertaste,
everything has its end, everyone must keep going.
there's an echo of voices still talking downstairs,
always waiting for someone to step through the doorway.

you might meet someone,
be it the darkest night
or the first bright sunlight
of the rest of your life.
and they will look at you
like you're the only one they see,
not knowing that a part of you
still wishes you were here, with me,
be it the burning depths of hell
or the paradise beyond;
they'll never know you quite as well,
it's not their touch for which you yearn,
but i can't take you,
this space was always made for one,
although i loved you,
there's nothing more i could've done.
so i hope you meet someone,
be it in the midst of night
or on the brink of the first sunlight
of the rest of your life.

fame is a double-edged sword,
the greatest of earthly temptations;
if you are the one they adore,
you're also the one that they hate on.
you change so they wouldn't get bored,
but they always run out of patience;
it happens too quick, it takes you too long,
it makes you look weak, yet somehow too strong,
and all that you give them, no matter how real,
they'll deem it a cheap imitation
and say it's a shame
that you've fallen so low.
can't say that you haven't been warned;
fame is a double-edged sword.