You repeat the same, time-worn phrases. Their meaning is lost on me; they echo your dishonest eyes. They are meant as a salve to my wounds, as a topping cherry. But they fall flat, out of tune and years too late.
They reach me only as a mirage of truth.
You can put the record on repeat, but I'll always feel this. It is solid and unchangeable. As constant as birdsong in the peak of summer. As permanent as the memory of something lost.
It's time you tell me that I'm lacking. Because I can't accept what you won't admit. I can't hold on to a half-truth. And I can't believe in something that's not there.
Just help me accept imperfection.
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