I never seem to get there to the point where my fingers reach the soft waters, the warm sand. I never seem to get close enough to dive deep into the sea and taste the salt on my lips.
I wait by the sea. The wind is raising. And I forget to breathe. The bird dies, If the shell isn’t broken. If the shell isn’t broken, if it isn’t broken by him. The bird dies before having a chance to live. The leave is swept away. The plump rots. The rose withers. The mane
You never understood that I could’ve that I would’ve that I should’ve. But I couldn’t. ‘Cause you wouldn’t, you couldn’t, or didn’t. And then I didn’t know whether I could, should or needed to. Whether I shouldn’t, whether I mustn’t. But why should I care? There is no love,