Steam on the pane liquefies and slides down and through your heart.
Mistakes you made weren't enigmatic signals, but coarse gestures.
What a fool indeed. It was not a come hither, but a please retreat.
Cheek turned, eyes lowered. You submitted and now you're condemned for it.
More mistaking your own cowardice for allure, appeal, seduction.
You were not a temptation, likely a repulsion. And now you're forgotten.
Oh to flashback, if only you could reverse to the past.
But would anything change? Your amateur bedroom eyes will still be in vain.
A self-fulfilling prophecy. It's your life story.
With only you to blame as you sit by your window
watching the morning dew slice you into pieces.
Funny, you cry at this immorality even though
you were never promised that your dreams would come true.