You walked out the door, and I just can't see how.

How did that make anything better?

Because now you're an enigma, and I've never even seen your face, but I live your face.

I have your face, inside me somewhere.

Your blood is my blood, and I don't know where that blood comes from.

I don't know where you went or where you came from.

I don't know who you thought you were, walking out.

And sometimes, I just feel like if I could meet you,

I would scream at you, "Do you know everything that you missed out on?"

But you don't.

I have to think that you thought about it

Some days, at least, when you were falling asleep.

Maybe you had dreams that you'd done things differently,

And I hope that, if you did, you woke up,

And crawled out of bed, regretting what you were missing.

All I do know for sure is that part of me carries you around

And I have to figure out what to do with the knowledge

That I'll never know where part of me is from

Because until I find you,

I can't really find my full self.

So, I'll keep looking, until your heart

Stops crying out within me for the truth,

And that's the last thing I don't know:

When will that moment come?