22 AMC

I've become prone to
admitting my infatuations.
I hate it,
it hurts when the sidewalk doesn't answer.

I hate the tent in the backyard,
who are they trying to fool?
I hate the stories they tell
about their day and what it entailed.

I keep moving on,
but they can't reach,
and I look back,
believe me, I do,
but how long can I stay here?

There's no fun anymore,
especially when I know
I'm welcome back at any time.

It aches and I sigh.
I force it away and laugh.
I told you I would stay,
everytime I make for the door.

Hitting keys softer,
a build up,
to a crescendo when at last,
I've said everything I've had to.

I guess you didn't want to hear it,
and I didn't want to say it.