Poetry will be forgotten on the bookshelf Paintings will eventually blend in the wall A long novel can rest under our pillow But where do I go?
Flowers will always get thrown away Chocolates turn into empty wrappers Songs get put back in the cd case But I have no place.
Necklaces are unclasped and hidden Expensive perfumes are washed off Letters are folded and stuffed in a drawer But nothing stops the slow-moving hour.
If thoughts live deep inside of you And still can make you smile Then maybe a treasured memory Is the point of my last mile.
