You are all I want, and I can’t for the life of me, figure out why. I am screaming to you from my heart, and I don’t know myself anymore–I cannot abstain from this desire if it means having you. If there is a chance. I am such a fool, but there is the wish of new faces, of new love, of something wonderful. Oh, I am still the dreamer I used to be; the fantasy never truly goes away–even when I am jaded and cruel. I want nothing else, but the satisfaction of a dream come true.

May I be different? May I be selfish? Will you hate me if I am?

Yes, there is the responsibility to reality. To the truth, and to the cold honesty of the world. I know you may scold me for wishing on fading stars, for wishing on something long gone. But it used to be there, and for me, the past is all I am. So yes, I am the wilting summer, I am the washed away memory of love. But what are you? All I perceive is the dream, but you are not truly. Perhaps I am a fool, but I am not entirely.

Can you be what I want? Can you be different? Will I hate you if you aren’t?

No, I cannot cease this need. But I am afraid it will make you leave, to see how much I am pouring open, spilling over my own cup. I am not truly contained, and I am constantly denying my own truth–even to the moon. Perhaps I am the worst sinner of all. But no, you are the world as it is; you are the clock never ceasing. Maybe I am always chasing after the chime, in search of you.