You'd never ask what I love about you and I'd never tell because silence is a thing that we do
You refuse to take things seriously, you let chance govern, you drive me insane and you cure me of the blues
I'm made of words and I think literature saves, you think that's romantic but pitiful and that some things are better left unsaid

But when the metaphors dry up and there's nothing left to save, I wish you'd learn to listen to my silence
Just as much as I wish I'd learn to read into your cascade of meaningless words that flow to cover up your tragedy, my tragedy, the void of the whole world

And maybe then I wouldn't feel like I'm just a woman walking pointlessly through your life
A woman without answers to the questions that never see the light of day, frozen, suspended in between all our inside jokes and small talk
A woman without insight, who cannot pull you from your past when you fall back into it
And, most of all, a woman without closure, who never learned to say good bye and could never be taught what full stops are good for