I live in a hollow reality,
with a hollow heart, and a hollow me.
I speak in a pitch so different you can’t hear
and keep whispering ‘I love you’ in your ear.
And when you’re near
the hollow doesn’t seem so empty anymore,
there’s a light that shines on this concrete floor.
And if you say my eyes seem bluer today
it’s mainly because my troubles are fewer today:
you are here, and I don’t need to miss you anymore –
even if I cannot kiss you, that is all.
My heart is happy for a second,
a minute and then you’re gone.
And yet, those whispers you can’t hear are partly mine
(partly the universe who agrees with what I hide).
The hollow reality, it knows that there’s a day
when I will permanently watch you walk away –
but it won’t accept, won’t admit that this is true.
Because the hollow that is me is lacking you.