The house burned down and I wasn't there to witness it.
I wasn't there.

Our bloodlines dictate how close we are, yet the body only reaches as far as the fingers could touch.
She whispered to me, "The house burned down and you weren't there for them."
It's true - I was not there.

We fell out of the same tree, but I think someone took a bite out of me too early.
A part of me stayed, but mostly left.
And this is what I get for being too ambitious.
I could not be there.

Had I travelled under a different moon,
had I have been another form of legacy,
had I have not been me.

But, oh, why wish when you could have seen that fire!
Its blazing tongue licking the limbs of its victims, yet undulating in dew of beauty.
And years that I've been gone was not blindfold to my past.
It is the unwrapping of my coexisting souls.

Oh, I wasn't there.