Maybe all we'll ever get to have are the memories of the time we've spent together; it's been so long since we went back to that place, and perhaps that's good, you've never been the sentimental kind and my memory tend to fail me most of the time. Maybe these memories are enough of an indicator that my feelings for you were somewhat true, but what good would that do, when a distance is the only thing you've ever asked of me to do? Maybe you'll be lucky and you'll find someone new, who'll treat you the way I was always afraid to do. And maybe, just maybe you'll remember me when I said: I hope a day would come when you'll forget we've ever met.
I talk about luck when I talk about you; only because I hope your luck isn't anywhere near through, I'm not a lucky man and that I know for sure, yet I can't help but think that a silly thing like luck had led me to you, or maybe not; perhaps a coincidence is more true when I recall the way I've met you. It's funny how, after all we've been through, I still manage to talk about hope, like I haven't ran out of it too. I talk about hope but I see a different image pushing through, yet my mind still finds a way to reach you. I'm not a lucky man and you know that's true, I'd rather stand alone on a fading hope that i'll forget you.
You told me about your fears when you felt safe enough to share them with me, and I don't think I'll ever know, how much it took of you to do so. Not an easy one to read; and at first, I wished you would mislead, a tease like me, that was too easy to please. You told me about your dreams; though you've kept a few, yet a vivid image of a family by a beach is too strong to remove. You told me about yourself; but only a little, for me to understand that trust wasn't a thing you'd ever grant. As I recall how you were, and who you were, to me; all I seem to vaguely sense and see, is a fragment of a mystery.
I wonder if tonight you'll think of me, and if the mood is right; you'll decide to write for me. To be strangers is what I fear to be, but perhaps its too late for me. I'm not the one, you should be making an enemy, but if I've hurt you once; then let your walls break me. I'm not good at saying much, when its time to say enough, and so I fear a day would come, when my weighted words won't be enough.
I talk about luck when I talk about you; only because I hope your luck isn't anywhere near through, I'm not a lucky man and that I know for sure, yet I can't help but think that a silly thing like luck had led me to you, or maybe not; perhaps a coincidence is more true when I recall the way I've met you. It's funny how, after all we've been through, I still manage to talk about hope, like I haven't ran out of it too. I talk about hope but I see a different image pushing through, yet my mind still finds a way to reach you. I'm not a lucky man and you know that's true, I'd rather stand alone on a fading hope that i'll forget you.
You told me about your fears when you felt safe enough to share them with me, and I don't think I'll ever know, how much it took of you to do so. Not an easy one to read; and at first, I wished you would mislead, a tease like me, that was too easy to please. You told me about your dreams; though you've kept a few, yet a vivid image of a family by a beach is too strong to remove. You told me about yourself; but only a little, for me to understand that trust wasn't a thing you'd ever grant. As I recall how you were, and who you were, to me; all I seem to vaguely sense and see, is a fragment of a mystery.
I wonder if tonight you'll think of me, and if the mood is right; you'll decide to write for me. To be strangers is what I fear to be, but perhaps its too late for me. I'm not the one, you should be making an enemy, but if I've hurt you once; then let your walls break me. I'm not good at saying much, when its time to say enough, and so I fear a day would come, when my weighted words won't be enough.
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