Your hands grasp but can't hold,
As I continuously cling on to any shred of hope
Despite what I'm told.
Your frequent departure
Has become routine,
When you board your flight,
I remind myself that it can't possibly be me.
My hands grasp, and they reach
Toward your place, your things,
and some type of consistency.
What a thing it would be
If someone kept track
Of the times I've felt in need.
What a thing it would be
If I could remind myself
that the only person I need is me.
Because your hands can't seem
To recognize me,
Even if I'm inches away
In your bed,
Yards away from a light's beam.
Your hands grasp but they can't hold.
Even when my hands is in yours,
It doesn't change the way our story unfolds.
The readers must be getting bored,
Because each chapter ends the same,
Each chapter beings with your same
Lead being the one I follow and go toward.
But no, the angle must change,
I need not your lies, or broken promise,
I need not the pain.
But we know how the story goes,
You'll be back in a few mornings,
And the redundancy continues to unfold.
Because my hands they can hold on,
They can hold on and on and on.
