Would you still love me if the night spoke my sin,

if the ash of my mistake clung to our bodies,

if the wind carried whispers of my guilt

and our skin bore the scent of shattered stars—

would your hands still gather me from the void?

Another year living, another day gone,
The past isn't giving the wisdom I want.

I'm searching for answers, I lay in the rain, I stare at the moon while I'm begging for change.

My face is now creased, from years of worry, I laugh at my young wish to grow up in a hurry.

The right answers never come, I grieve over wrong choices, I'll stay in my bed berated by these voices.

And it's October, but the leaves are still green, the seasons aren't seasons and I am not me.

Twenty seven I might be, but fourteen I still feel, I look at the life I've built but none of it seems real.