I write with this pen, it writes with me
On paper, on skin I spell what I see
The feelings come outof what I wanted to say
On that bench, with you, that day
Oh, how I would have dressed my letters
To fit the time, the place, to explain better
For the destinationof our words, where do they end?
TO what may begin again through what I bend
And it's true my pen betrays when given chance
For it hangs on each line to wait for words to dance
