Strange infatuation seems to grace the evening tide.
Such imagination seems to help the feeling slide.
Instant correlation sucks and breeds a pack of lies.
Oversaturation curls the skin and tans the hide.
tick - tick - tick - tick - tick - tock
And every time you vent your spleen,
I seem to lose the power of speech,
Your slipping slowly from my reach.
You grow me like an evergreen,
You never see the lonely me at all
I…
Take the plan, spin it sideways.
I…
Fall.