song of songs 6:3

My heart's a waiting room, a brokeninto tomb, a rock that doesn't roll and yet still attracts no moss. My faith's a rusted fence, a cityskyline with no room for stars nor patience for questions. And my body's a dying breed, breathing only for the sake of, "I know no other way." These thoughts are aging athletes and time is setting the score, ruining habits with state lines and verses I'd tried to ignore. All that's left to do is sing myself to sleep, but the chords inside of me are breaking at their own performance.