Somnambulism
I'll look for you
in the deep, cobalt blue
of a mountain lake,
or the startled crake
of a moorhen,
flushed from its nest,
or the idle word, said in jest
over a steaming mug,
as we huddled and shrugged
off the cold and damp
round the guttering lamp
that attracted the moths
and the tales of weird Goths
that inhabited the wood
in which we stood,
as we pondered the stars
and named them as ours
in the time before now,
as my furrowed brow,
struggles to forget
that we ever met
and did all that
and, here we sat,
planning our tomorrow
with no hint of the sorrow
that I was to face,
without you, in this place,
here, where earth meets the sky
and we questioned why
it had to end, asked why lovers
can't be friends and, in the end
we instinctively knew,
we two, me and you,
that paradise had been lost,
that was the cost, of our liaison,
our raison d'être,
held hostage to fate,
and now, too late,
I cogitate on what might have been
and wonder why I only dream
in black and white?
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