It wouldn’t change a thing;
you were like the wind and I was fire.
I would always burn brighter,
and stronger, and longer:
and you would always disappear.
And when you came back (and you always did),
you would smother, or you would tickle,
or you would light all the embers aflame –
I had no way of knowing.
It was for all those moments
that we lived – even when it wasn’t perfect,
even when it wasn’t right.
But then came the night,
and then came the light.
And then we were gone.
I could have been wind,
and you could have been fire,
and it wouldn’t change a thing.