The sweet gust of flame
comes and tickles my nose,
the scent of the same candle
we will both always know...

I wonder what you're up to,
when I look at the moon,
like the slightly cloudy nights
when I was standing beside you...

Like the flame that flickers
as the candle is soon to go out,
my love for you fluctuates
from distant memories, to now...

What clouds my thoughts most,
is not the web we wove,
but how we should move forward,
in this garden of thorns.

To pretend we're both happy
would be deceiving to both;
Should the rose be cut for pleasure?
Or should the rose be left to grow?