Cause we've all been painted by numbers-

You said it was love
I said I'd like you to be mine

Two I love yous you say without really saying anything at all, and in a trail of "you too"s here's a declaration of undying com(passion), an eternal promise, a relationship made pregnant (?) by expectation. Until we miscarry. Our lovechild, this love bleeds away into the wind, as wisps of yesterday meet the disappointment of today and there is no puddle left behind. C02 does not leave puddles,no water to clean up, no mess, dissolvable stitches leave no scars. Love and medicine have come a long way, you can't see marks anymore, who talks about 50 years when 50 hours will suffice for the climax and Anti?
I am not a cynic, I am but a bystander objectifying the objectification of our affection, as love gains a tangible quality, a wholly new sensory overload. Too much too soon, move up, move over.

We've all been painted by numbers. Recreate a masterpiece, every heart will have a Sistine Chapel. 1, 2, 3, replay the downfall of Adam and Eve, then erase, move over because it's too intense and all you wanted was.. A Mona Lisa.