Ah, L’Amour...

Swallowing, disillusioned, your irrational thus-spoke proclamations,
Perhaps my sociopathy was the better option
Than crashing face-first into your adolescent "I wish I could"s
But my brain was on a different theory altogether
And, hardly inclined toward your future, with shattered dreams in my hands,
I loved you anyway because, well, what does it matter
Carving into the wall that we were destined for each other
But far too often destiny is a lie

And me, childish and insecure, I was squandering my tomorrows
Taking roll call of every phobia I had
Or writing “Fuck off” on the fogged-up windows
Of some hostel on the outskirts of town;
It was sublime and everlasting when, barefoot, in common time,
I’d lose my mind in every poem I wrote
And what a laugh, I swear, now that we’re far apart
To settle for a mournful nostalgia.

Because round and round it goes, it’s a worn-out story
That I wrote in pencil on the same bench
Where, silent and frightened, you said “it’s over…”
Mh. I didn’t get it.

Ah, l’amour, Chérie, l’amour, what a beautiful thing
To not understand a damn thing anymore and drown in clichés.
It’s Tuesday, it’s ten and something,
A San Simone is my dinner and I’m writing about you and me.
Because that’s how it is, in songs and in life
It seems like it’s never my fault, oh poor little me, alas
Showing off like this, with grammar and a rhyme,
I’m the one who’s right, aren’t I?
Why does it always happen to me.

Because round and round it goes, it’s a worn-out story
That I wrote in pencil on the same bench
Where, silent and frightened, you said “it’s over…”
Mh… Maybe it is over!

Because round and round it goes, it’s a worn-out story
That I wrote in pencil on the same bench
Where, silent and frightened, you said “it’s over…”

But, wait, I’ve got a heartbreaking line:
The end is a “forever” that rhymes with nothing, for the two of us.