I'm ill with a sickness. It won't kill me but there's no cure. It fevers my sleep and pains my days, but it provides me with glimpses of perfection I'd never get if I were well. It's a hunger, a desire, a powerful mixture of pain and pleasure.
It's killing me, but I won't die.
Maybe the april showers will cool my burning heart, because this love is too painful.
I keep trying to fight it off, but I still feel it and I still want.
I wish I could stop being in love.