i'm tired of writing, it seems, the same thing. it is the only thing i have passion for except you. you are my ache when i breathe in. when i've felt the barren fields of my sins one after another as in my head they begin to replay. i pretend to not care, leave you space and air. its different to not have things returned as fast as youd like them to. To think you've had things figured out and still lose. Seduction, Fakeness, infatuation, love? none of these work, all you want is me, but slowly and the movements like i'm, stuck in between, but i'm not. I have my destination seems too late for revelations. I am lost to you now, yeah I'm indecisive, but when i do make up my mind, it's gold. And i've made you out of mind... pushed back to another time. Lost in my past stashed in the back.