Thirty-fourth Street
Why did you choose me?
Things seem to happen only when I least expect it: I'll put on something pretty in vain, yet think to myself that it's all worthless, when has that ever gotten me anywhere? Yet you look me in the eyes and tell me how good I look, how it complements my complexion. You take me home and we keep on talking, and eventually we finish that entire bottle of champagne.
You decided to put you trust in me, even though you kept asking yourself why you were telling me everything---why you became who you are today, why you have that air of confidence that deep down is so contrived, but is convincing enough to intimidate me so much.
You find it impossible to trust people, maybe for good reasons, but somehow you opened up to me. Me, with my day-to-day countenance of stoic apathy, of cynic rationalism; you with your obvious emotions and (if I dare say this word) romantic heart. Is it that obvious how often I cry myself to sleep at night?
Can you convince me to trust you? Do you even care right now? Will you even admit to that night in the future, or will you keep treating me as you always have, keeping your distance and pretending nothing ever happened, that you didn't open up to me on your porch swing? Will you not see what that did to me?
What did it do to you?
Things seem to happen only when I least expect it: I'll put on something pretty in vain, yet think to myself that it's all worthless, when has that ever gotten me anywhere? Yet you look me in the eyes and tell me how good I look, how it complements my complexion. You take me home and we keep on talking, and eventually we finish that entire bottle of champagne.
You decided to put you trust in me, even though you kept asking yourself why you were telling me everything---why you became who you are today, why you have that air of confidence that deep down is so contrived, but is convincing enough to intimidate me so much.
You find it impossible to trust people, maybe for good reasons, but somehow you opened up to me. Me, with my day-to-day countenance of stoic apathy, of cynic rationalism; you with your obvious emotions and (if I dare say this word) romantic heart. Is it that obvious how often I cry myself to sleep at night?
Can you convince me to trust you? Do you even care right now? Will you even admit to that night in the future, or will you keep treating me as you always have, keeping your distance and pretending nothing ever happened, that you didn't open up to me on your porch swing? Will you not see what that did to me?
What did it do to you?