Shadows never leave our sides,
but only in the presence of light.
Darkness exist in depths of nights,
but only once the flight of whites.
Its uncertainty, not aversion.
Why do words always run out?
Why do time always run out?
At times of impromptu no one is primed.
Sense of directions turns erroneous.
And conprehension ensued in flaw.
なぜこんなに 近くにいても 届けない 場所に
なぜこんなに 暖かい のに 切ない 思いが...?
晴れた 空 われる 雲の隙間
涙 空 心 の 傷 と 隙間
愛しても 届かぬ 心 かなわぬ
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