By M. E. Riddle
Forgive me, I’ve dreamed for years,
There’s no hurry, there’s no tears.
These days, these mornings, all so strange,
These frantic encounters, hastily arranged.
Dark morning, leaving the room,
Crowded freeways, impending gloom.
Wine stain ruminant of the past,
Toppled, fractured, broken glass.
I’ll leave you tomorrow,
As I have today.
And next time I see you,
I’ll leave you again.
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