We speak and dream of love as if we were illusionists. Dellusionists. (Some paths are chosen to get lost on.) And the map we draw is that of the imperfectionist. Never missed, but always missed. And how I wish we never kissed. For the world I feel you can not see. Oh what wretches like you do to men like me. And the mass spoke: “It will pass in the after days, scattering your hearts in the haze”. (I really thought I could mean something when you too were afraid.) Lost lie, kept truth. Uneven. Unjudgable. Open those eyes on your back for the night brings beggars and thieves. The night brings beggars and thieves. The night brings beggars.
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