If we were made of water, then maybe I'll be in a much, much better place because then, I'll be able to take a hit and move past everything that tries to pierce through me, through us. Maybe then I wouldn't have to worry about you going because I know that even across rivers and oceans, I'll always find you.
You're but a cautionary tale lost to the wind, perhaps a fond farewell; a stranger on the subway, disdain in your eyes.
How many times can a heart go back when your eyes aren't there anymore to guide the path home? Or was your warmth ever home?
