The dark side of porcelain skin,
proves the distances still unmet--
so let us dance in the moonlit night.
Heartless words and hateful eyes,
provide, for a single time,
a glimmer,
a hope,
a window of opportune moments
too poignant to wish
ourselves proper goodbyes.
Behold, we are not who we thought.
Do you mock me, moon, glaring with your patient glow,
a pristine shine biding time, because too late do I realize
who really has been in tears,
who really has been the one,
crying,
inside.
Know, we are not who we thought.
And time mends these sutures-- time,
so easily used as answer to incessant 'whys.'
But bygones never stay bygones;
not those built upon counterfeit truths.
No, we are not who we thought.
