In the infinite solitude of my heart,
I can only replay your walking away
into the lands of Never Quite Forgotten,
into the pages of million stories alike.
My tears are not yours.
They pour over the hearts of those incapable to steal two glances,
of those ordinary enough to be dispensable.
The stories of all the forgotten ones.
Holding hands, playing round a golden tree,
my friends Love, Darkness, and Melancholy,
betray themselves with kisses,
pretending to be Always and Forever.
But I can't help esteeming them.
And I wonder the what ifs of your walk:
what if I had left earlier?
what if I had ran to you?
what if I had never met you?
After you're gone,
Love left for Never Coming Back,
Melancholy grew and turned into Apathy,
and Darkness married Bitterness.
So I'm left with a flaring golden tree,
its ashes staring back at me,
daring me to speak out what I hide:
Please, ensnare this scorching heart.