Another Gross Night Out, Inward

You told me that my love for something is so ridiculously unchanged,
and initially I found it to be such a sweet, astute observation.
Now the thought makes me uneasy sick, and I hate going out like this, ignoring you,
but your contentment is unfair to me, and I am searching for a weak and impartial accord.
You'll wash the months down, and I'll dryly gather what is and isn't worth it.

If it isn't timeless, then what a waste of my time, and I'll sit in chairs and wish to not be there at all.
Latch onto something, get engrossed in the infatuation itself, in attempts to lose myself, only to rediscover just that.
Cureless nerves, too high regards and esteems, you came to some sort of terms with yourself, and I do not so much as know what that means.
For the first time that has ever been, accruing aptness associated with avoiding being alone, and I'll never call this a home, nonetheless best stay in.
A constant war between lasting insight, and a fun night.