My heart was longing for you suddenly and I became short of breath. The kind you took away so long ago and only gave back what little I have left.
The Male is perhaps a rough symphony. Cymbals, trumpets announcing an entrance, a presence. A back talk, eye rolled, sighing concerto that hits the highest note of retreation. But you come back for the elation, like a Beethoven, a cloud number ten. Just when you think It's finished, just when you think itβs time for bed.