Every time I reach out my hand to write,I stop short in an instant,You walk away, become a total stranger,I wonder if I should follow.
When the desire appears again,Troubling whatever it finds,I reach out my hand once more,I ask, is it worth it or not?
In the end I make peace with myself,I start to write anew,Even though you have gone, you are forgotten,You will surely come.
You will rest your hand upon the waiting,You will write to me, I know it well.By then, forgotten, I will wander,I don't know if you'll follow me, I don't know.
