There's been a question pondering my mind,
but it seems the answer is undefined.
What could this curiosity be from?
I call for solutions, but they don't come.
(Infatuation's my frustration)
This malodorous rarity lingers
knowing the answer won't touch my fingers.
Whisper in my ear the things I'm craving,
before my troubled mind begins caving.
(My brain's rattling with this battling)
Give me an excuse to ask for the truth,
without seeming like I'm being a sleuth.
A question's constructed; lips leave it trapped.
The secret to your being needs unwrapped.
