Saturday, March 12, 2016

But, it could be ours

   A scrawl in the margin of a tattered book-

And memories tinted in yellow antique lights,

              Play deep in your irises;


                    And in mine,

                        our love.

           In abeyance, we could live,

               And in that moment,
                         we love;

         The world would cease to be,

Slowly, like a half-remembered dream;


                     All there is,
  Is a book with someone's name on it.

             Not yours, not mine.

      And that scrawl on the margin,

            Not yours, not mine;

                It could be ours.

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