Youre the poem that lingered but I never wrote,
Youre the lily in the orchid I never plucked,
The moon in the night that wasnt full,
The rain in the skies that never poured.
‘Cause you are beautiful the way you are,
You are raw, yet fine, fine as wine you are.
Now it took time for the lily to bloom,
For the rain to rise to the skies,
It took time for the moon to end and reborn,
Thus, it must take time for me to write you down.
They call it a morgue, they find it all dead,
But they dont see the light you have filled me within, even if bleak,
They dont see you made a blue heart go red.