Reflections of faces getting caught in dark spaces, with wounded hearts.
Secrets revealed in awkward glances and lost chances.
Pursed lips, and stolen glances.
Tired eyes staring into illuminated screens, reflecting, deflecting, rejecting
playing the part in a show that no one cares to watch.
And all I want to do is scream.
How do you measure my love and then tear it apart?
I created a love story and it fell short from the start.
It seems clear that my imagination got the best of me
I no longer can settle for three forths of a man.
I can’t stand (on) mediocrity in the face of perfection.
That no longer holds my attention
How much of your comfort would you give up for love?
I guess you will never find out.