Why does it always end like this? And why do I cry?
Where's that person content to sit and watch me breathe, or the one who'll go out with me in a storm? That it won't always be me left, wanting you, but switched ways around.
'Cause I'm suffocating here, waiting, but I'm a hyporite, waiting.

Is it that I have to give instructions, or that this person that I'm in love with doesn't exist and never will? It is too much to ask, and I shouldn't. But I don't want to do what you say; it's like dying but still having to do the part of living you hate. It will be incomparable and I'll never feel like this.

Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending:

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