Words fall out of my mouth, they drift to the ground and they don't make a sound. I'll try to assemble them back to the place in my head, but I fear that I lack. The proper speak that I need, to narrate the scene, to tell you these things. The proper place for my thoughts, I know that I'm not and you know that I'm not.
So dark but delicate. Well I'm rough around the edges and you can try to smooth me down, but I’m not, no, I’m not it. And you can try to smooth me down, but I’m not ready to forget.