Split down the middle
when the lights turn red.
Like an infinite equation,
we're never solved.
'Cause when we think
we've got each other figured out,
the seasons change again.
Multiplicity and paradoxes
are flying left and right.
They say it wouldn't work out,
but we'll prove them wrong again.
Even old friends see
terminal disorder
from great expectations;
hopeless romantics,
here we go again.