I like it when our arms brush.
Your touch gives me violent butterflies.

Now that you're back, I can finally listen to the same songs we used to.

It doesn't hurt any more.
I'm still confused and I'm still hoping, but for now I can almost be content.

Almost.

I don't know what I want, and I don't know what you want.
I'm not even sure if we know or want the same things.

I do know that I don't want a repeat of last time.
Because I don't think I can come back to you again.