Vision of him.

I can't stop thinking about the lonely bird who's nest was cut from the limb, it amounts to so much more, I see a vision of him

Where death walked in and broke the tale of love that was ment to be told, how he died so young, and I am getting old
 

Nothing comes as precious though as a memory of his embrace, although time seeks to hide him from me, I cannot see his face

Day dreams I recall the moments that we kissed, but nothing hurts more than the days in love we've missed.