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Vintage home, newly influenced sight--
confusing me with fully furnished might.
I still bring the black paper in my hand
for my trust on anywhere this will land
has already vanished.

Strolled outside home, took neon hope,
while my curiosity's gone down the slope.
Covering my face with one mask I had;
my empty heart has never been this glad
over what's not yet finished.

Gentleman, you stand tall and brave.
You seem to be an ideal recipient
of a black letter of someone so naive.
Is this where your name went?
It disappeared from the letter I hold.

You used to be Little Fussbudget's.

Feelings flooded the side of my eyes;
it's the first kind I felt that never fails.
Since when have I never felt wise?
When I knew you're in one of her mails,
I felt so dumb for I didn't understand it
soon enough.

I moved a step closer, and you did not.
Maybe you're too astounded
you hear your love, Little Fussbudget,
in words you know I said.

"Darling, the rhymes I wish to gather
fall out when you speak.
You keep my courage held together,"
says the little weak.

And now, you hold her memory
together with my presence.
You hold me in your arms
like a scared boy who wouldn't
throw a boomerang.

"You've been braver,
my Little Fussbudget,"
you whispered to me.

Gentleman, with me in your arms,
I see you're taller than me
even with my tallest shoes on.
I see you're a whole lot
taller than the courage
of Little Fussbudget.

"You're the missing recipient
in the letter of my younger years--"
I said a mistake.

For a second, I thought that
Little Fussbudget is my weaker self.

"I ain't Little Fussbudget,
but you're the missing recipient
in the letter of her sadness."

An unreasonable tear fell off
of my left eye.
It's my first time crying.
It felt unsteady to do so,

but haven't I told you
that I hate my name
and I don't really
want to be prideful?

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