Image of the tree that bore me sits inside my heart
whether I am thinking of the end or of the start.
Wonder if you still sit with your back against its bark,
dreaming up your poems as the twilight turns to dark.
Beneath its leaves you opened up your paper,
tears sheltered by tears, rolling down, they taper.
And nestled underneath the willow's canopy
your words dance to the rhythm of a universal beauty.
And though we've never met you bore me.
Though we've never met you bore me.
Though we've never met you've made me who I am.
Image of the girl that made me sits inside my heart.
Could have loved you if we'd ever met and shared our art.
Memory serves to say we tried once, through a thin, electric line.
Tell me, Nikki, tell me: Are there others of your kind?
Never knew how you said so much in such few words.
At times I'd try to do the same and fail and feel absurd
Could I have loved you if we met and shared our art?
Tell me, Nikki, tell me: Are there others of your kind?
Because though we've never met you bore me.
Though we've never met you bore me.
Though we've never met you've made me who I am.
