Bloom in the Eden

I'll keep your glove as a keepsake if you should go walking again,
and I'll write a note for when you come back home.
I'll depart with this message, this time not to solely petrify you. 
After I'm gone, and you find yourself alone in this house,
I hope you can muster up the courage to get through the coming winter, 
be it from the calm of your morning strolls or the recollections of our home.
I'm heading out, to make sense of what lies inside this brain of my own.
The winds up North seem particularly perilous like the shards I should be walking upon, for a bare present solely means past wasted on bleak ambitions.
I might chicken out in the hut on the way to town, a two-hour drive away. 
But today my body's trying to force the machine to start again.
I feel like running away and afar, until my legs are frail enough to break.
If we then mustn't see each other, I beg you to go out for walking again
and find in your path, the same-old calm again. 
Forget that I lived. My desire was to win over a thing I could never reach.
Just when you imagine me bidding you my final goodbye, think of a bud that
flew away from a flower, across the wilderness, and into the sky. 
It bloomed and wished to touch again the same heights, it wanted to fly.
It grew silent as years passed, the little hope it had was lost.
At last it couldn't realise that it was closer to the sky than most of us, only if it had someone to say that to him out loud.
So in the end, I'll be a little closer to the sky you spent your days watching, 
at least we'd share something, and I'll be a little ahead.