Time divides place
and leaves you, my sole remainder.

And how hard I've tried
to tear myself down,
to cut myself short,
to make you more in of me...
to rationalize.

I am so tired of chasing you,
as "Why does it have to be this way?"
is always my last thought
slipping into dream,
leaving me worse.

"Well, let me treat you.
That's what they say 'do."
The hint of a phrase
with little context,
but I know what it means.

And how sure I am
that if only I could explain,
to tell you how I feel;
and so I will:
I am not pathetic;
this is all just of you in my dreams.

How did it feel
when you saw the sign not to fight through?
Because if it were up to me,
something would come of everything.

So I am sorry if I created an idealized image,
a fantasy of you,
and treated you as such.
Or maybe I'm sorry that you couldn't see its cause in yourself.

Just tell me if you were My Spring,
as I've found My Break to Summer
but wish things new again.