Space

Dear lord, what have I become? Reduced from a hulking mass to the pulp in my love's drink or maybe the orange itself squeezed dry Ah, but while it all goes down, smooth for her, it is not my cup these passing years have changed me deconstructed me, I am softly withered The time to reform is upon me I shall not pass it up, lest I offer my hand straight to the reaper himself, I think not! With every pulse there is a reminder to live The harmonious choose to live committed. Would it be to love or an asylum for the unstable I myself have not figured it out But if you love me, give me space