I don’t have time for love,
I endure no motivation to be enough.
This thing that I think we have could be a dud,
I’m too frightened to mess it up in the long run.

Laughter doesn’t fool me no more,
I’m afraid my expectations are lowering.
Commitment becomes more of a rush to roam.
I’ve just escaped my anxiety’s Stockholm.

Messages one and two,
I sent to you at quarter to.
Messages three and four,
You should have sent an hour before.
Messages five and six,
Delivered at quarter past but you missed.

Is it something you can’t see?
I want this fantasy to be reality.
Keeping me searching for a particular clue,
Hate to say your responses are due.

I beg you, don’t prove me right,
My breathing can’t keep up with the heartache.
When I care too much everything feels too blithe,
Could somebody reciprocate...