It's peculiar to remember all the times we'd roll around in your bed, emitting a love that would not last but perhaps a month longer. I can't seem to find the passion I used to give: did you keep it all to yourself? I can't kiss him as well as I used to kiss you...
Seeing you the other day wasn't as dramatic as I had predicted, but love, I can feel you here with me sometimes. In this bed, your caramel warmth caresses my memory with the love you had for me, and even though his honey attention is all towards me, I can't lie to myself: I still favor your caramel. We'll probably never embrace each other like we did our last time, but I feel that we both wonder what would come of it if we did.
If I could change that day, the only thing I would alter would be my words: instead of disharmony, I would profess my every emotion, without care of anything. I would tell you I love you until the end of time. I would tell you I love you, not to beg you back, but just so you would know.
But here we are, reaping the fruits of our mistakes, and all we're left with are memories, wishes, and new lives. Can we cope? I hope we can.
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