It's not me anymore. She's not radiant. She's not sparkley, magical or sweet. She's cold and distant and self absorbed. There's no resemblance. There's no familiarity. A drink in her hand and a grimace made of her face. It's a constant fight.
He's not mine. Like puppets our limbs dance at the orders of a string. It's fine when we're together. Fine. We use that word a lot. But apart there isn't trust. Just the undeniable urge to run. It's only a test though, but you won't see it that way. You'll turn and go just as I said so.