Was I not devout enough?

Having loved a few people 

with such unwavering eyes,

I almost believed the world was so innocent.

After rounds of entanglement, 

I asked myself why I had to be so foolish,

Squandering my trust time and again.

Only when the room grew cold in the night did I realize my heart needed relief from the pain.

If only forgetting were an instinct...

The fireworks of love I obsessed over and craved—

They were extinguished, left to go cold.

Was I not devout enough?

What keeps a person alive is an unconscious tenderness.

Once that candy box was opened,

The only truth was that you didn't belong to me.

I used to laugh at those who wrote romance stories for a living,

Thinking such perfection was impossible.

How can a writer calmly pen their own foolishness?

The signature is nothing but a tearstain.

When the coffee shop turns quiet and chilly, I can only return home and drift into a daze,

Feeling as though there is still something left to do.

What I burned and scattered to the wind were those ironic love letters;

What drowned and suffocated me

Was your calm, offhand, and careless talk.

Was I not devout enough?

What allows a person to be reborn is an unconscious tenderness.

This isn't some fable about fortune and misfortune;

It was simply two souls drifting on the wind who missed each other.

There is no real loss to speak of—

How can one grieve over something that never happened?

The fireworks of love I obsessed over and craved—

They were extinguished, left to go cold.

Perhaps my dream wasn't devout enough?

What keeps a person alive is an unconscious tenderness.

Once that candy box was opened,

The only truth was that you didn't belong to me.

What drowned and suffocated me

Was your guarded, offhand, and careless talk.

What allows a person to be reborn is an unconscious tenderness.

This isn't some fable about fortune and misfortune;

It was simply two souls drifting on the wind who missed each other.