I’m on borrowed time, in borrowed skin, where borrowed things are stored.
Like words I’ve learned, and people I’ve loved and I walk in borrowed clothes.

I live in borrowed houses and drink from borrowed cups.
And the hands that intertwine mine, come from borrowed love.

And every time I say ‘I own’ I know that it’s a lie.
So take a borrowed seat with me and from borrowed tears, I cry.

To own is such a lovely thing, to have and dearly hold.
But to me it seems that borrowing is an act of things unsold.

Buying seems a fable, a tale as old as time.
And when I don’t partake, I’m charged a heavy fine.

We traipse to borrowed buildings, to beg for borrowed loans.
We bow to regal people, who sit on borrowed thrones.

The constant can’t be borrowed, though certainly can be arranged,
but the only constant you will find, is the constant life of change.

So let me use this borrowed breath to say that in which is true,
that truth cannot be borrowed like the dawn that breaks on cue.

To live may feel uncertain when borrowed things are gone,
but borrowing feels like living, and I’ve been living all along.