There's this itch I feel
but haven't figured it out yet;
is this a drive to speak for the unspeakable,
or an urge to spill words like blood from a wound?

There's this itch I feel
but haven't figured it out yet;
is this a trigger for a wreck that is to come,
or a spark of idea from a wicked mind I can't own?

There's this itch I feel
but haven't figured it out yet;
I can't scratch it like a card, gambling for a prize,
nor can I treat it with alcohol, poured on rashes or drank in a rush.

There's this itch I feel
but haven't figured it out yet;
it clouds my visionless eyes, naked or on lenses
it agitates my trembling hands, I can't smunpew.

Meet me for sometime,
cut the chase of what ifs and hows;
maybe we'll star in a pantomime
in a world only us knows,
where two is not a prime
but will 'us' be what this encounter follows?

If we leave here not knowing
Where life will be going,
Love,
Remember that if all fails
Fall back on the fact
That we are growing.
Always.