She's the sceptic that longs to be susceptible
But rests her faith in doubt
He's the hermit that longs to be approachable
But can't quite leave his house
She's the portrait that longs to be collectable
But hangs on office walls
All the signs that seemed to give directions, all
Have somehow led to falls
I'm the coffee cup, caked up in residue
My insides turned murky brown
Years of content have taken their toll, where
Lipstick left violet crowns
We long to last in a life that's disposable
To leave a mark on something
But I'm the temporary, longing to be permanent
Where all ends long to begin