Write about love? Me? When?
Now? A little late for that, don’t you think?
Well, guess I could try a little “what might have been”.
Let’s see – how about a drink?
Hey, remember, you don’t do that anymore.
Hmmm, more’s the pity and I’m talking to myself again.
How about coffee instead? Scarcely the same.
A cigarette? Yeah, something else you don’t do anymore.
I search my mind for a face, a name.
Funny, I can’t seem to find them. Was it all just a kind of personal folklore? Imagination? Weaving in and out of reality?
Was any of it ever real? How about the pain, the joy?
Don’t get maudlin.
Perhaps my memories are like the cup of coffee on the table,
Cold and no longer able to offer warmth or comfort.
I push them both aside. Not much to write about, I guess.
Time for bed.
You came into my life so briefly, but afterward it was never the same.
How can I describe, explain – you were a Rod Stewart song,
A concerto by Tchaikovsky, an autumn day with colors of flame.
You were my rock, my joy, my reason to sing. So why was it wrong?
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