For a cynic, you make me into such a romantic.
When I talk to you, you make me feel perfect in all my flaws.
You make me write too much poetry, you make me stay up too late, you make me talk too much, you give me butterflies.
For a cynic, you sure talk like a poet.
You tell me about the ‘clear moon’ and ‘living history,’ and you tell me you’ve felt magic; magic like I mean it, not like others do.
And you can deny sentimentality, but, my cynic, you tell the same old stories.
I’m romantic, I’m nostalgic, I’m a princess when I want to be a stone.
But you, my cynic, are a prince, you are a gentleman, and you want to keep your distance, but we sit on the same throne.
