The cold air striking down my spine,
chilling as the works I have to do.
What's the point of working without love?
Go ask Gibran and he'll let you know.
I am too picky for love,
it might be my reason to not be picked.
I really do love someone.
But I just don't know about love.
And as much as I need to know,
I need to breathe and eat,
and do works in this chilly,
chilly space down the building.
Where I believed my fate was.
No comments:
Post a Comment