One song it plays. One. And happiness fades out.
What lies in a song? Is it the lyrics? The melody? The muse?
Or is it the person you miss in those words?
One movie and your palms sweat cold.
Dialogues and tales you witness, characters whose tragedies mirror yours.
Is it the one who talks like you? Or is it the one who leaves?
One letter and everything falls into place.
Is it the teardrops that stain the pages? Is it the pain you read written out?
Or is it the writer, who holds your missing, beating heart?
Is it me?
Am I haunting you everywhere you go? Is it my face that wakes you up at night?
The one you describe in your works of art?
Is it me?
The figure you search in the crowd, the one you dream of finding again someday?
Or am I the one unable to forgive and forget?
Am I the one haunted by your face and your touch? Am I the one waking up to nightmares?
That in this reality, in what is the truest, there is nobody here but me?