Cross legged we sit.
Knees touching and I smile and ask you
Ask you why
Scented candles and cushions
Wind blowing outside
Your eyes don’t meet mine but … they wouldn’t
And as you think, I see you anew
Lines on a beautiful face.
That touch of grey I love so much
Yes we get old but I take your hand and ask again
Because you have to go. Need to go.
Plans you dreamed of. Dreams you planned
You tell me of your past. Your personal pain.
Loss and hurt. Betrayal.
And my hand strokes your face, tracing your cheek
Things that should of been said but weren’t
Lines in the sand. Tears dried
By life’s bitter wind.
But pleasures forgotten
Heart’s pain knows no relief.
And what of my life?
When did I lose belief?
© 2013 Stan Rogers. All rights reserved.