We were a theory, not a plan.
You bloom where the sun lives. I burn and sulk.
You chase light like it owes you joy; I chase shade like it owes me peace.
Six hundred thirty hours of sun, and I’m radiant, ghost-pale and grinning, the happiest contradiction in London’s golden Spring.
You bloom where the sun lives. I burn and sulk.
You chase light like it owes you joy; I chase shade like it owes me peace.
Six hundred thirty hours of sun, and I’m radiant, ghost-pale and grinning, the happiest contradiction in London’s golden Spring.
You? Probably glaring at the sky, wondering how it got so loud. I think it's because of me.
I wish I could say this to you.
But you’d only close your eyes, turn your face to the light, and forget I was ever in the shadow.
I wish I could say this to you.
But you’d only close your eyes, turn your face to the light, and forget I was ever in the shadow.
And then there is water. And I don't know how to swim.
She loves the water. I wish I could watch her body move beneath the surface.
She loves the water. I wish I could watch her body move beneath the surface.
Me? I’m always on the edge: afraid the water will pull me under before I learn to float.
You say water heals; I think it’s a language I never learned.
While you disappear in its quiet depths, I’m left standing, dripping, wondering if love is the same, something you can sink into, or something you only watch from the shore.
I wish I could say this to you.
But you’d laugh, splash me anyway, and pull me closer, whether I’m ready or not.
You say water heals; I think it’s a language I never learned.
While you disappear in its quiet depths, I’m left standing, dripping, wondering if love is the same, something you can sink into, or something you only watch from the shore.
I wish I could say this to you.
But you’d laugh, splash me anyway, and pull me closer, whether I’m ready or not.