I feel unfinished,
like the painted picture that is incomplete.
No matter how full my heart becomes of love,
my heart still feels empty.
Their’s nothing solid to hold onto, no promises been made.
Just chance and fate and the mystery of it all.
But it is what it is, nothing’s going to change. The intentions are the same.
Unless his heart becomes open,
and he stops being afraid.
If only he know she was afraid too. Maybe then he would hold her. Maybe then he would choose to feel her warmth.