You tell me to mind the writings on the wall.
We joke about our walks of shame.
I wonder: if not here, if not now
Is bad timing the only one to blame?
Yet here I am somewhat lost.
Sometimes chasing butterflies.
Mostly hoping to disguise.
That I’m not ready for goodbyes.
Won’t open my eyes.
Gonna hold my breath.
Your hands, my mouth, our wine.
You leave. I'm here. I understand. It's fine.
Your jeans. My dress. You drink. I don't.
We've always been. We'll never be.
We don't exist. There's you. There's me.
This is my writing on your wall.
A quiet mourning over us.
Always past. Maybe future. True story that never was.
But, see, like you, my words don't stay.
The wall is gone. The plane has left. The paint is gray.
And as you try to read the lines, it's too late.
They slowly start to fade away.