As I walk down this snow laden path
with the deep cold glued to the air,
the likes of which could never quite match you,
I listen to these memories of you that I don't remember.
Kind of like an old calendar, it was once useful.
Now its just full of old time and forgotten days.
But the mind is like that.
Its forced to remember and to know.
Its forced to feel old scars and seek new ones.
Forced to know you.
How you were mine,
but that's not quite right is it?
But the mind is like that.
Believing things it thinks it knows.
You are a cancer in remission.
They haven't quite cured love yet.
Even though its oh so much deadlier than hate.
The mind is like that.
Remembering things it shouldn't, wouldn't, and doesn't wish too.
It remembers all the same...

and the wind still whispers your name...