Untitled IILike the winter sunsecretly burns,behind gray,your confession clings.That you and I,we're more in-sync,than carnation fields in spring.
FactYou were the piece that perfected me.But I was the imperfection in you.It was the tragic irony,and conclusive fate.That drew us together,Just to pull us away.
Untitled.I need a hand to hold.Or else these hands...They'll corrode.