Sometimes I get the feeling that I am
not really alone. Somehow I doubt
that it's ever going to change, same life to live.
What happens talking with the wind?
And what now, just weeds, or seeds already sewn?
I am under the impression that we walk back
to the house to take a moment to write, on our own,
and you sit with me by myself even when I'm
the only one home.

Nothing is really there when you look for it,
if at an empty spot in the page I lose sight
of the fact that life has quit. It stopped working
once all of them found a reason to ditch.
I guess we'll never know because within me
there is an undying itch. False without you,
let me be free to be alone with me...