Even if she's far, she's hurting me.
I don't know why, my fingers don't know why,
my watch can tell time, but it doesn't know why.
My books, sitting beside me in my bed, they can
tell me things like who did what and how and why
but they cannot tell why, at least why
even if she's far, she's hurting me.
She may not even know why, or she may not even understand,
that even when we're not together, even when everything
are supposed to be happy, like my watch when I wear it my
right hand instead of left, it's so happy it won't leave my
right hand anymore, even when its absurd,
even when it makes sense,
even if she's far,
she's hurting me.
I'm beginning to love her, so much, so deeply,
that even if she's far,
she's hurting me.
November 2, 2007
