I love you, and that's how fucked my life is.
I pretend as if you want me, the way I want you, madly.
I play the few miserly words we spoke, in my head, over and over again.
I check my messages every few minutes, knowing well, that it is not me you write to.
I imagine you in the moments I spend alone as if imagining could make you real.
I call out your name, in my madness, as if my words, like magic, could be heard in that heart of yours.
I love an impossibility, I stop, I try to forget, then I keep starting all over again,
and that's how fucked my life is.
