Sitting before me in a checked dress,
Refusing to talk, or even look at best,
Cause time and again I've proven my lot,
At doing things I'd better not,
In these moments of silent exchange of breaths,
Fidgety fingers and a shaking head,
With the crippled air, suffocating to death,
There is a voice, drowning in dread,
The echoes of ripping screams,
In a distance the vision of crumbling dreams,
In this timeless endless place,
A little figure hides in a cramped space,
Waiting for infinity to pass by,
While icy winds become the spectator of his cries,
In a perpetual wait to see the light,
Of the eyes that refuse to see his sight,
Then came that moment of piercing truth,
How frail is the idea of love in youth,
But still it seeks to reach the end,
For better or worse, whatever is meant
- Shy