If every word I scribbled,
Made you a little close to me.
I would be writing on your lap,
Not far across the seven seas.

Not with a vision,
That's getting blurred,
In the peak of every night.

Not with an ink,
That's drying,
Trickling through time.

Hoped,
To finish what I started,
And walk into sth new.

But destined,
To crippled down in pieces,
Before I could write ,"you".