It's not something worth reading,
every little love note I write to you.
It's not something worth breathing,
the life you've somehow given me -
What goes up , must come down,
including this odd kinda fling we've had.
The emotions don't run straight through,
they only touch the tip of each vein.
Our passions aren't strong enough,
to bring us any closer, my darling -
they've only weakened to equal . . .
our minds capacity of knowledge
and, now-a-days that isn't much.
I swear to you this one last thing,
the dreams I've dreamt are fake.
You're not the man I clearly want,
nor the man I somehow need. . .
It's like a game of sweet revenge,
for every broken heart alive -
therefore, it's not something worth reading,
every little love note I write to you. . .
Since my passion was never there,
to bring us any closer, my darling.
It lingered in that mind of yours,
weakening to your capacity of knowledge,
and now-a-days that isn't much.
