Because I’m always the man who finds problems where they don’t exist.
Because I’m afraid of the beach because of the sand, afraid of the fire because of the heat, scared of you because of the love. Because the blood that runs fast through my veins is always impure, my thoughts always cold yet not clear as water.
I don’t know what is stronger: my need to dive into the ocean of perdition and loneliness or my will to rest my hand over your warm skin, door to the soul. I don’t know whether it is my fault, yours or the devil’s. I don’t know if it could be better, if more than this is there something.
May life forgive my cyclic waste of time. I just don’t know (but something answered):
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