Time washed us shores apart.
Miles that shores stretch
sometime somewhere fetch
a puddle in time the size of a dime
that draws you up close, nose to nose,
memories struggling in the eyes.
I become ink on paper,
stark in a room with loneliness candlelit.
Without shame I ask for you and the
mulberry tree up on the hill.
To fill the spaces around us with love and thrill.
Nothing happens. Nobody comes. What comes
is a craving for the next moment to just be.
With quivering fear
and every hope very dear, comes too
a same morn each day where I must
get up and drift a few more miles away,
to a freak beach, where shores meet . . .
maybe for a while, maybe for a smile.
