Delayed

I've promised many times that I'll never be like you,
Even when my flaws are shaped like your edges,
Maybe all I am is nothing like you,
Even when loose grips, wouldn't sever our tethers.

Beneath swaying trees,
In the season of fruits,
I fell and skinned my knees,
And you convinced me everything is good.

The passing of an author

I was an empty book,
And you gave me my letters,
And now you're gone,
No matter where I look,
I hope you would still pray,
So I wouldn't leave my pages in shambles.