I dance this delicate ballet,
a unique one that none other will,
some will join me in this dance,
only one I wish I was with still.
I look through the scrapbook of my life,
just plain words written on brown bag type paper,
what I would do if I could rewrite these last few,
maybe I cannot rewrite the past-but could we start something new?
I would be your love-not your mother,
I would encourage you-instead of keeping you smothered,
we would live life like we were in our prime,
and only act on things in their due time.
I know my words might never heal the wound in your heart,
the damage might be too much for love to spark,
but my words and tears are the only things I have left,
I am so sorry that I did not love you like I once promised to.
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