I wrote a song, hoping you'll be happy

Busy

You're always busy

Constantly busy

Busy to the point that his longing seems superfluous

Busy to the point that he meticulously considers every message he sends

Fear of not receiving a reply

I keep making mistakes, constantly and repeatedly unclear

But my change isn't much

You don't need to worry about him spoiling himself

Is it excessive to be so preoccupied with your feelings?

He never wants to command himself to be calmer

But no one ever thought about him, his world is increasingly difficult to take care of

He's like a lonely, abandoned child

He was crying, crying, crying, crying at the station in the early morning

I am a pearl wrapped in earth, without any light

You circle around him, constantly relying on him

You are so, so, so busy

You've left no room for a moment's peace in my world

I have so many things I want to confess in the darkness

I have too much sadness to soothe myself

He deleted and deleted messages he never sent

Worried about you bearing more burdens

The past was so lively in the mud

The evening breeze at the station was once warm