There'll be a man at the window,
Looking out at the moon and the stars,
And the millions of memories that come to mind.
When the big problems are little
And the little wrinkles are big,
What will he think?
When we stop caring about essays and the future,
And start caring about wills and the past.
When he sees my face, will he remember butterflies,
Or the bitter taste of sadness?
When the bruises and tear stains have gone
And we have forgotten who we were,
All the little stories, gone in the wind.
Will you be proud of who you are?
Did I ever bottle the stars for you?
Will he think of all the secrets I told,
Or the ones I never revealed?
There's so many questions,
But lots of time.
The thought of the man at the window,
Who looks at photos he couldn't stand when he was young
And now smiles,
Who loves every flaw he used to hate,
And has lived the life he was scared to live,
He doesn't scare me,
Nor the void after.
Because the woman at the other window,
Will be proud that he's stood there at all.