What are we?
When our eyes meet, and you're kissing me like I actually mean SOMETHING, and my hands are running over your chest as you pick me up, it's almost like we're lovers.
Afterwards, when we're ignoring each other, treading politely in the self-imposed awkward silence, we're aquaintances who have taken things a few steps too far.
When you run off without a good-bye, and your eyes are dark and hard, we're enemies.
But when you've left, and the fog clears, what are we?
In solitude, my answers waits.
We're nothing.
And you mean nothing to me.
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