Weave me another story,
With your sweet little lies,
And I'll wear it like a flower crown,
Made of dead cherry blossoms,
Even if everything's too cold for spring.
Did you hear,
They discovered the black hole,
They say it devours everything,
That comes in its way,
And something inside me,
Is eating me; bits by bits.
I feel lost, restless,
Melancholic.
Saudadé.
I keep longing for things,
Like a beating heart next to mine,
Like some deep smooth voice on a call,
Some warm hand to cafuné my hair,
And skin full of moles I'd kiss;
Keeping the count,
Sometimes losing count,
As I lose myself sea deep eyes.
Hiraeth.
Sometimes,
I crave power of controlling time;
Pause. Rewind. Fix. Play.
Repeat.
But apparently the world is not a wish granting factory.
So I keep twisting and turning on bed,
Feel something crawling all over me,
While a black hole inside keeps eating me;
Bits by bits,
And I keep  wearing flower crown,
Made of dead cherry blossoms,
Even if everything's too frozen for spring,
So weave me another story,
Of truth this time maybe,
for once, I want to melt,
I want blossoms to bloom.