Maybe only when we fall is when we feel
our lives for what they really must have been.
I lived only for my need for you to eat me,
not knowing if the branch would break or bend.

This life I felt had only been a wanting,
a searching song inscribed by my own pen.
I felt somehow I'd authored this disaster,
filching fate from fists of gods and men.

I'd wanted more but I was just a peach.
I'd wanted things that fruits could never reach.
Now I wanted back the life wanting had leached.