There's really no good reason to keep this up.
I know it won't work,
That, statistically speaking, it's completely futile,
And yet I keep swiping.
I think some part of me believes you're out there somewhere,
Waiting for me behind an endless stack of
"I'm here for a long time"s,
"I'm actually 21"s, and
"In my Reputation Era"s.
But I know you won't be there.
You never have been,
And likely never will.
At least Sisyphus knew he was hopeless.
I'm cursed with the stuff
Because, even if I know you won't be there yourself,
There's always that razor-thin chance
That I'll find someone
Who's close enough to being you
To convince me that I was trying to fit you
Into the spot in my heart that was made for her
And not forcing her into the spot that's already yours.
I know any form of "us" is a pipe dream.
It always has been.
No matter how much I want it not to be.
No matter how many times I could swear you've sent a signal.
I know I'm just reading too deep into things,
The way I always do.
There's really no reason to keep this up.
I know it won't work,
But I also know if I stop it would destroy me,
And so, I keep swiping.
