your presence urges my hand to write all these things
that perhaps are worth less than dirt to you
this sorrow that grew inside me stings
and even went to a point where I got a flu
would you believe me if I say that you’re still in my mind?
that you’re the only one that my soul wants to find?
that the memories you brought me still give me a smile?
that the pain you caused made me weep ‘til I fill the Nile?
if I had the chance to jump back to the past
and warned you in the first place to not make me fall
perhaps this recovery of mine would be fast
and I wouldn’t get to have any bruises at all
(P.S. You will only be the person who’ll make me passionate on writing, I still love you.)
