- The past soon, pulse, oh
We're already past the time when we could've been something, and everyone knows that better than we do. Kisses in corners and touches on balconies were meant for us but we never really had it, we only had the illusion of us and what we wanted to be, like it usually is; a way of tricking love that will strike you back, like a kick in the gut.
It hurts, it fucking hurts, and you fall and you break all knees and hands you've got and all those you miss on your body.
It feels empty, it feels fucking empty. You miss one way of killing time a monday night ten o'clock and you miss a tickling, teasing desire in your breast.
So you lick your wounds and you feel more mature but still pathetic, maybe you succeeded at fooling yourself along the way too. You hum melancholic melodies with your raspy voice and try to think about something else, but the past is screaming and craving for attention right now. What will soon be past is right now and hasn't turned to past yet, and the process burns, in secret. But you would never admit that, and you wouldn't admit that you still don't want to learn from your mistakes, and instead fuck all the rules and desperately cling to something that never was anything else than fairly beautiful hypocrisy.
