It rains. My mind drifts. It feels like I made a mistake somewhere along the path. I cannot help but think of… forget it. Thunder outside. My heart is weighed down by a terror that I do not yet feel completely. Skies rumble. It sinks like a nervous rock. There is a strange sense of clarity. I have made a mistake and I cannot help but think of… you and white linen curtains ruffling in afternoon breeze. And wheatish sheets, so comforting, this sensation on my skin, the touch of this slightly coarse fabric, and breath; I curl up. The scent is pine and earth, a soft aroma. Flashes of brass, and gold, your body… a love that was meant to thrive like a fragrance that swells up, overwhelms all world, and drifts away. Did it take the shape of this deep longing because we knew it was a reverie, accumulated over years of play and poetry? I only knew it as love towards the end. It was too late. I had ruined my home and you had found yours.
You who would shy away from even the slightest touch of my eye, can you hear me, are you somewhere near me… wont you like to tear me apart again?
Story Of The Footloose 