I try so hard to talk about love. Any kind of desperate, perfect, one-way, passionate, needy, free love. About emptiness and bad choices, about the excitement of the next first kiss.
I try so hard to find you between the childish nonsense of this
clumsy words. I try so hard to fall in love again by remembering the way you
smirk, you walk, you think you dance. I try so hard to fill my soul with old
sorrow and rotten gloom, so I can blame you and your disarming gaze for this
sad song.
But I can’t. The song ain’t sad anymore, and from some time now I’ve
been able to disarm myself just by looking at the mirror.
