and leaving strikes a cord within me that strives to never have been hit,

a chime along the wind similar to a smile and a cry - if you are strained,

- it is heard by the pained,

and if you sift through knowledge, deep down you’ll find,

that anything and everything i say is just a curated lie,

a half fled answer to our incomplete reality,

and the love that i say i have,

but i am empty,

except for the music that is kept within me.


and i’ll say to myself that people will remember;

in december when the nights are long and hot,

and when the air seems to have memory

but they will not, and i will be alone once again,

with the melody that makes up my heart.