Mourning my own pain, my fatalism in love has conjured my helpless woe, mocking me and murmuring a lifeless hope in me for love.
Driving in a lonely, sheer intuition, the tighter I hold,
the harder I feel the sharp edges of love, peeling my joy and scattering my heart. Alas, it slips through me.
Locked in a dignity of my grief, I fall off anytime I take a stand in love, murdering my trust and painting me with melancholy. Oh! It slips through me.

Circling in the riotous music of love, my heart is peeled in its clumsy pinches, traveling with me in the dungeon of sorrow and reverberating a cacophonous song of its hurts. Yes it slips through me..

Like I have been completely complaisant toward grief, pain has given me a better half of its garment, burning my efforts to ash, and jumbling my romantic ideas in lovelessness.

Determined to win a fight over love, a fermented, loud-out cry comes from within, crying foul and hoping for a rematch. The more I give the less I receive. Love slips through me, and drops with heaviness and boldness.

Overflowing in the moments that come from love, I have dissipated my despair to take a shot in it, but it always horror-strucks my inner being and leaves me to be buried in my own Shadow.
Love slips through me.