I don't know how to make these problems known
when I don't have the words,
the voice, or the tone.
But I think I recognize this path;
all these familiar stones
spell out warnings that are tripping me down.

I'm the one who isn't keeping pace;
you're still holding your stride.
At least that's what it seems like
when I'm looking from behind.
I think I'm losing flavor
or maybe that's my taste buds.
I feel like an intruder
once again worried about soap suds.

I had less scars when we first started,
unbelievable but true.
Now, I don't know if I have the fingers
I need to hold onto you.
If we walk unthreaded
our steps become unmatched
and when I cannot find a rhythm
it's hard to know
that this will last.