In the blue, the early morning.

I still can remember how the end of your fingers, your short nails, figured a way in your own hands as scar, as a dissapointment in you... or in me.

I still can't leave the traces of those scars or memories, and I cling on them in me.
However as the ink make it's way on the papers those images find they own way on me.

Maybe you're better of this way.

Maybe I'm better on this way.