Have I waited to long to say something?
Is it to far gone to ask?
Would I ever compare to you or to what is inside?
The thought of missing you becomes all too much.
What if I were for you and you were for me, but the path never crossed.
Left empty, right away, upward thrust, and downward fall.
You used my pen as the knife, and the rose as the bandage.
But this time I came to ask of you the favor.
Not to become yours, but to just be remembered.
Am I more than a memory?
Does the thought stick?
Can you tell us apart?
Are we still that different?
NO. . . . Yes . . . no.
The inevitable, the indefinite scar me.