And ended looking
For your ghost.
Drove past old streets
We used to walk
Wooden verandahs
Where we used to talk.
Everything narrow
And confined
Not open
Like our moonlit skies
Where the fall spoke
In drowsy tones
Revisionist poems
In old beater cars
Sipping coffee
Becoming morose
Maybe just becoming—
Who knows?
The years took their toll;
You flew to the coast
Where it rained
Every day.
We vowed
To never grow old
Complacent
But lied…
That was another pose
And now
Here I am seeking you,
Soaked to the skin,
Contrite, cause I lied again...
And visited the coast.
