Illness of the Heart

I think it is an illness of the heart,
a sick and twisted state to leave a soul:
you keep a love you never meant to start.

I don’t believe that you would play your part
if I let down the guard I keep tonight;
I think it is an illness of the heart.

A love should leap free like the running hart,
not languish, fettered to a whipping post;
you keep a love you never meant to start.

What would you say if I were to depart?
Would you reveal the truth about your love?
I think it is an illness of the heart.

Perhaps we’re better off being apart
than trying to conceal the savage truth:
you keep a love you never meant to start.

I think your purpose solely is to thwart
the finding of the other half of me.
I think it is an illness of the heart:
you keep a love you never meant to start.