Old manuscript.

Sometimes I watched over the manuscript.
 I kept the yellow flowers in the ground.
I once tried to plant them and make them grow.
Sometimes I sit and remember.
Cheese sticks on the way out of school.

 Just a moment and I held her.

Suffering from not speaking,

 thorns from my mouth came out just one more time.

Every now and then I review the manuscript because it is not mine.
 The story is no longer mine anymore. 

Every now and then I travel to her shores
 and watch some of her movies.
I cling to the days when she was mine,
 even though she did not love me like she used to.

The wind whispers secrets of times long past
, and in the echoes of her laughter,
I find my solace.

 I walk along old paths where we used to wander,
 and every corner holds memories of a faded love.

Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine her here,
 her smile lighting up the dimness of my mind.
 I wonder if she still thinks of me,
 if the yellow flowers still bloom in her heart.

And though time moves on,
and the seasons change,
within me, the garden of our memories remains.
 So, I watch over the manuscript,
again and again,
 tending to the petals of a love that never quite dies.