All I have is this old, hard and cold table. I put my head on it. I can hear it creak, as if to complain. I am sick of hearing your stories.
My own voice disappears in void. And tears grow old, my eyes wear the loneliness away. I need to tell him another story.
He creaks. No, not again, not a sound I want to hear. He creaks.
I sit silently. Reminiscence. My own quiet soul grows weary. Knowing that even he can't bear me.
All I have is this old, hard and cold table. I put my head on it wishing it was a warm shoulder. And some ears who would not be tired of another story.
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