back to the lake

i wonder how much of me is you. maybe i didn't tell you enough; since i was constantly thinking about it i figured it must have been written all over my face. most of me is not from myself but from you and i wondered if that was bad, and i thought it probably was but i didn't know for sure. now i can't make it different through any way but undoing everything that happened from the second i met you, and that's too much to make blank; to make a question mark where a book has already been written. i wonder if i would've done things differently if i would have known you weren't going to be around forever, and i don't know and i try not to wonder too much, but i think about that.