All the things that matter to me, mattered to us,
Matter so little to anyone else
If they even matter at all. It’s all so intimate. Small.
No-one but you could ever remember how we sat in that bar.
I can try and explain, paint a picture, tell the tale of our joy and the blight on our stars,
But really, why should anyone care?
No-one but you can know or remember that one special night
When we met in a world that was flooded with lights.
We were there. We were present. We were so very there.
No-one but you can remind me of words even I have forgotten past reasonable trace.
I have to scrape every shadowy cave of my brain just to recall the shape of your face.
A face I so loved. A beautiful face.
No-one but you could make me keep looking, hoping to see you around every corner, through a window, in a crowd, alone on a bench, out with your kids (assuming you had some), walking through galleries, buying fruit at the market. Do you still play guitar and sing in the street? Do you visit our favourite tree in the park? You’re far older for sure. So am I. Have we passed in the street? Maybe you can’t even walk anymore. I don’t care as long as you’re there. Somewhere, still there.
I’m so frustrated looking for you,
when I know in my heart that you’re already gone.
How can I ever know if that’s true?