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?