You do strange things to me.
You are a paradox like nobody’s business,
but I suppose I could’ve gathered that.
Tu est comme ta peau.

So pensive, yet in such a simple, innocent manner.
You still ask the questions long beaten out of the rest of us,
and say the things we were taught not to say any longer.
You cut through my defenses
with the unpretentiousness of a child.

In a world that waits for no one,
where time is commodity,
where people come in and out and rush through life,
you stop
to look at the roses and the dew of dawn,
to take in the beauty of a fleeting moment
and the lingering effect it has on you
and me.

I listen to your silence
but hear all your words.
Sometimes I wonder,
“Is this really what you’re feeling
or is this only what you want me to feel?”
But I am glad nevertheless
to feel anything from you at all.

I am hanging on a string.
Hanging on to a story that we’ve never written,
and a past that’s not mine to call.
Kneeling in a temple to an unknown you.
And the only thing that keeps me on my knees
is my faith
that you’re not alone,
that I’m not alone,
that we are alone.

I can scream out to you,
“¿No ves? ¡Soy el único para ti!
¿No entiendes? ¡Estábamos destinados a estar juntos!”
But my words are valorless in these times,
fodder to the cannons of enraptured declarations.
Hvordan kan jeg skille meg fra resten?
Hvordan kan jeg skylle meg fra resten?
You strange thing.