Tell me, how often do I cross your mind?
Is it only from time to time,
Or is it like you in mine?
Thoughts of you are rhymes that pulse with each beat of my heart.
The poetic feeling you give me is a piece of mastered art.
I keep telling myself this isn't love but it's a start.
Tell me, what do you think of me?
Do you see what everyone else sees,
Or do I make you feel like the bourgeoisie?
Your touch makes all my broken pieces collide.
You see what's hidden inside instead of what's painted on the outside.
When I'm with you I see no sense in trying to hide.
Tell me, do you feel the same thing?
Am I writing this while spreading my wings,
Or am I hanging by a bit of string?