In school they teach you about arithmetic, but they never taught me how to divide my attention between work and play,
to add up the number of times you took my breath away or the number of times you've made me cry,
To subtract the times I've thought of you or to multiply the times I've tried to be content with that.
While listening to the radio on the bus ride home, I've realized late in my life that love is not as simple as a verse chorus verse. It takes more than one than one person to write a song, and there are more arts to a song than the lyrics
And at night I wonder if the stars shine brighter for you now that I'm gone, or maybe they sparkle just like they always did, or if there's a girl you know who knows the story of a snail who loved a sunflower too much, but slowly inched away
Hands are wonderful but fragile, used to break and to mend and to hold and to push
Mine are constantly reaching for something but my fingertips always brush against you. I never know whether to pull you close or to push you away.
In school they each you about geography and history, but all I've learned about was the places I wanted to travel with you, of the weather, and whether we'd brace the storm together or not.
Rather than a history, I wanted to know yours: I wanted to see your future, and what it would hold for you, and whether or not I was a part of it.