Tomorrow it is Sunday,
and eight years hence:
Since that damned forsaken night,
When I nearly toppled over the fence.
The fence that divides this life from the next,
The fence that is spoken of in many a text.
Yet I lay here, it's nearly dawn,
And the memories come back faster than a passéd yawn.
The bench, the river, the park, the bank,
That golden time before into adulthood we sank.
The energy then seems so distant now,
So why do you keep coming back? Wow.
I never expected to be the woman still in love,
With a man she knew well before he gave her the shove
Right out of his life though in and out for a while,
In conversations that to this day, still make me smile.
I wonder if again we will ever talk, friend?
And make this distance, this distance ever end.
Eight years hence and still on the living side of the fence,
Living on a dime and just a few pence;
But living and loving onwards I'll tread
Until you're hopefully the last book I'll have read.
No comments:
Post a Comment