Maybe we will be together someday, when I have moved away, and when we have become strangers once again.


    Maybe I can manage to conjure up the words to once again speak to you, and maybe we will have small talk; you will say you're fine, and I will lie and say I am too, but in my heart I know i will still hurt for you.


    Maybe I'll walk by your shop, and you will be standing outside-smoking a cig, watching and wondering if we could've been something big.


     I remember the day I met you, it's still as vivid in my mind, you drew a picture of a bird with a clock, you asked me what you should title it and I wittingly replied. "Time flys."


     Just like a bird, with a familiar tune, our love and our life flew by, all too soon. That picture entailed how it would end, it meant that one day, you would just be an old friend.


     I'm no scientist, or mathematician, but the only thing I know is true is this: every 7 weeks, your red blood cells die, and new ones form; eventually I'll have a new body that you will have no longer touched.


     So sip your tea, and splurge in your wealth, one day you will look back, and wish you had changed yourself.