I feel like every day I have something new to tell you,
Show you what I've written, or expect an honest opinion back.

But the problem is that your ghost doesn't talk to me anymore.

See, I'll close my eyes and fall in love to old songs that sound-tracked us as we happened.

Writing about what i've lost is an addiction.

It's the need to hold on and live out that one conversation where nothing else mattered but you and me.

It should be understood that I cant see past streets that are covered with forests in the springtime.

And I feel that the only thing that can explain me right now is this piano.

Cause with only a few short notes it seems to be explaining what I've tried to do with a million washed up words.

Hopefully you'll understand that my hearts on standby, and I'm waiting for that password to be whispered in my ear.

How amazing it would be to feel again.
I never thought that was to much to ask.

No matter how dead ends, or empty days I've had to make it through, my feet aren't going anywhere.

There's so much confusion and helplessness.

And i've been collecting these moments for longer than i should.
Because God stole my heart, but left my body here to stay.

So tear the sunrise away from my smile, because my frown wears thunder perfect.

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