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 parts 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 teach 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.

I was thinking about how you were something I've unearthed, and how you were some kind of treasure that had been left hidden for a long long time, but maybe you were, in a way, like Pandora's Box with a Pharaoh's curse and I've started to avoid mirrors for quite some time afterward because I knew I would hate what was looking back at me.

In school they teach you of science, but they never taught me of how unstable we were in our individual elements and when combined we could have been perfect, except when put under pressure.
When ignited, you stole my electrons which would make you more negative and I positively unable to talk.

I didn't think I'd think about you, years from now. How much have you changed? How much have I changed?

In school they teach you of English, of grammar, and I've learned that every word in the English language cannot even define what this is that I feel for you.
You could call it love, I could call it love.
But is it 'te amo' or 'te quiero' ?

The constructs and the boundaries we place on words, on feelings, reminds me of the walls I built when you left, with each memory of you to the number of bricks I stack a ration of 1:2; one to keep you out and one to keep me in.

What's the probability of my failure in trying?
Could I move somewhere new and uncharted? Where the weather is stable? Or even unstable?
Rewrite my own history book, but without you?
Would it burn me to try again? Would the chemistry work?
School has taught me many things, but it didn't prepare me for you.