No one loves me.
I have no love to reference as my true.
No one cares about my existence in that way.
I want to share my life with you. Only you don’t desire me enough to be happy.
They would like to participate in your event when they’re riding along for free.
They tag along right beside you when the attention is warm, and the vibe feels right. I guess I automatically become a log fire, lit and burning bright during the winter nights.
Until nothing but cold ash moves gently, like a man that just been shot five times in his right leg. Then pain is evident, but the blood eventually starts to curdle.
I know nothing.
I know that I know nothing.
I know you’re tired of thinking it.
They limp beside me in fake association when I call out for help. The dialogue translates into this:
Me: Help me!
Them: I’m here.
Me: The problem is…
Them: I’m here to help but I’ve just got to run home and turn off the oven. I’ll be right back!
11 days later
Them: Hey! Hope you’re well. I was just thinking about you.
Deep in the forests, they shaded life away from my existence.
Out on the open road, they would like to ride shotgun.
Far into the ocean heads are held underwater for a least 11 minutes.
Look up into the sky and watch me glide over my consciousness.