When she looks back at you, it's as if you're watching a Tolstoy novel come to life
Bleak and longing, yet filled with sublime language
A page-turner you're not sure you want to read
But somehow you find you can't stop turning the page
And for all of your analysis and yearning, you remain ignorant of her
No one can help you with her... she can't be unraveled so easily
A moment is all you have guaranteed and it is duplicitous
You want it to fade away and die like leaves
But you feel the need to stretch time
An unfulfilling moment that seems to pull at each piece of you
As you flip through the pages she emanates
You can't help but wonder if she is a masterpiece
Of course, she is trite and filled with histrionics
But perhaps her cliche' is, in its own way, lyrical
You are confused and restless
There is no refuge... Inhospitable conditions are always so hospitable.
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