But the magic happens in discreteness,
when you choose to describe
who I was to you.
Perhaps then finally, the chambers of your heart might freeze blue.
Cause I might have been pushed off prematurely,
Or might have chosen to fall off by myself.
like a ripened leaf - yellow on the mud
With an eternal melancholy.
Or the time might have carried me with it,
leaving you with an urn of memory.
Or I might have travelled afar up north
In hopes of finding prosperity.
And when the magic happens in discreteness,
I fear I might never know.
So do tell me, when we still have time,
whether your heart is craving or not.