How often have I contemplated
To leave you buried in my thoughts?
And the traces that you left me with
Kept taunting me to be brought in oblivion.
Yet there's this hope –
This foolish little hope
That you'd one day look at me again
With warmth, like you used to.
That you'd come to realize
How I meant to you.
And that I would wake up to find
That this was just a dream:
That none of these was ever real.
So must I come to think now of this
As merely a course of slumber?
Or must I face the fact and realize
That it is better not to remember?
