This thing This book, which
Location
This thing
This book, which is the memory now
I try to hold it, to keep it
To make it special
By carrying it all over
This ring
Just a ring
Which I try to keep
Making memories
That just don’t seem to be as deep
My past, is lacking
The item isn’t great enough
I wither away wishing for it to be enough
For someone to be enough on day
Is it selfish? Is it a crime?
...Am I alone?
What an interesting thing to try...
To fix your own problems, that is
Why do I feel the need to fix others?
It’s this thing
This book, this ring
Most of all, it’s not enough
Not enough to make memories
Memories I lack, memories that were packed
Who’s to blame?
Why must there be someone to blame?
I’m inferior to what I haven’t got
Who are you?
I can’t remember your face...
But I think I miss you
Do I know you?
Do you love me?
I love you, somehow
But, again I realize...I lie to myself