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Is it breath from your word or the wind from the trees?
The smell of your lips or the touch from your cheek?
A place to conspire or a place to reflect?
A place to enjoy or a place to inspect?

If time had a word for that here that I see
Would it be a here that would be for just me?
Is the other that's here really indeed
Existing just as the moss and the seed?

If time had a choice to preserve or destroy
The here where I've taken my time to be coy
It might cast its arm down with one fail sweep
Yet my cowardice rises and my heart is too weak

My blood shall stand as a potion too thin
To give to the rises that swell from within
It pours to the riverbed where I might lie
On a sunny afternoon next to July

I'll keep with my here until I'm proved wrong
I'll keep singing melodies of your sweet song
Only in my stomach these bells will keep ringing
Taunting my soul to give into conceding