Why is it
That you only look
for stars
When there is no moon
And it is dark

Why is it
That you only know
what you had
When it is time
to say goodbye

Why is it
That the things we have
Always have to wait
While we seek the things
We might never get

Why is it
Among the greenery
of the spring
We forget about the autumn leaves that flew away

Why Is it
I have always grieved
for loss more strongly
than I ever
Felt the love

Why is it
That I always write about things
When it is a little too late
And they are already gone;
Their meanings belittled



Why is it
We are too busy wondering
why someone loves us
Instead of confessing
we feel the same


Why is it
We stare at a moment
till it slips
right out of  our hand
And blurs into a forlorn memory


Why Is it
That we wait
to be sure
Till a chance becomes
another what if