Falling for you

C major, Piano slowly arpeggiated with passing tones 12/6/25

Matthew P. Haubert

Verse 1

I’m falling for you,
  but you’re with someone else
  and it’s not fair to you.

I’m falling for you;
  it’s barely been a month,
  but I think I’m already in love with you.

Bridge 1

And every night you fall asleep by his side,
  while I’m stuck imagining
  kissing you, touching your thighs.
  What can I do?
  I have to pretend to be just your friend
  it’s not what I want,
  but I’d take anything to stay close to you.

Verse 2

I’m falling for you,
  and I swear you felt it too on certain days.
  But now I have to push you away.
  We got so fucking close
  and now I can’t stand the horror
  of not having you.

Bridge 2

So every night alone, when I’m confused,
  I message, I spiral,
  I do stupid things—
  little acts of sabotage
  messages meant to break me and you.
  Because I’m terrified
  of losing someone I love again.


Verse 3

I fell for you,
  please try to understand
  pushing you away
  is how I keep from losing you.

  It’s what I’ve always done:
  destroying any form of love
  before it can hurt me,
  or I can hurt you.

Verse 4

I fell for you,
and it isn’t fair to you.
You’re used to the comfort
of an easy daily routine,
and you’re already carrying so much.
How selfish am I
to pile more weight to your life?


Outro

Stability is hard to give up
I don’t expect you to.
Especially for someone
you don’t even know the middle name of.

But damn it,
I’m hurting so much inside.
I’m sorry for the nights
I push you away
when I’m mean,
or I lie,
or twist words
hoping you’ll start to hate me.

None of it is true.
It’s only so you’ll forget me,
so I don’t feel this
agonizing pressure behind my skull
the terror of losing someone again
So i’ve convinced myself I’m bad for you.

I’m sorry.
I love you.

Poem Version
Falling for Someone Who Isn’t Mine

Poetry version.

I’m falling for you
quietly at first, like a hand brushing a curtain,
then all at once.
It hasn’t even been a month,
but something in me recognized you
before I knew your middle name,
before I knew the weight of wanting you.

You sleep beside someone else at night.
I try not to imagine it,
but my mind is a traitor
offering me visions of your skin,
your breath warming another shoulder,
your body turned toward a future
that doesn’t involve me.

Still, I hover close,
pretending friendship is enough,
pretending proximity doesn’t burn.

Some days, I swear you felt it too
the way we almost crossed into something
we shouldn’t have named.
We got too close,
so close the absence of you
became its own kind of violence.

And when night reaches me alone,
confusion circles my ribs like a tightening rope.
I send the messages I shouldn’t,
say things meant to push you away,
little sparks of sabotage—
because loving someone
feels too dangerous,
and losing someone
feels even worse.

I’ve always done this.
I build something tender,
then tear it down before it can hurt me.
I tell myself it’s protection
for you, for me
but really it’s fear wearing a familiar mask.

You’re already carrying enough:
your routines, your storms,
your careful balance of what keeps you standing.
How selfish of me
to bring my shaking hands
to your already fragile world.

Stability is hard to abandon.
I don’t expect you to.
I don’t even expect you to remember me.
But damn it,
something inside me is screaming
a pressure behind the skull,
a grief for something we never let ourselves have.

So when I push you away,
or bend words until they bruise,
or pretend I don’t care
know this:
none of it is real.
It’s only a way to disappear
before I shatter.

I’m bad at love.
I ruin what I crave.
But for once,
I wish I didn’t.

I’m sorry.
I love you.
And I’m trying
in the only broken way I know.