Sometimes I wonder if that's how you are, like a dream: so beautiful and perfect and happy, and that I won't realize it until you're gone. And I might vulnerably weep, to try and see if you were real, but it won't matter if you're not mine. And I'll realize what a fool I've been, wasting time on me, when I know I should have been treating you like the treasure that you were. And I can see the future, how burried it is in the past, like it's already been written. And I tell myself I'm thinking too fast, but I don't know how to think otherwise. I guess it's true when they say "You don't value what you have until it's gone." In my future's past you are already gone, and maybe it's because I think ahead and I let it engulf everthing, or maybe that's just the way it was meant to be, and sometimes I wish it wasn't. And it may not have been literally written when I first spoke of it, but now by force it is.
