Here for a good time, perhaps not a long time;
Sometimes our gold years just don’t quite align.
One man’s beginning is another woman’s aftermath;
The scythe of time tearing wheat from the chaff.
The shuttle carries my thread across your weaving;
We all show love through different ways of leaving.
Our hearts have a limited capacity, apparently;
Yours seemed filled with a dozen distant histories.
An angry seaside infant with sand slipping between;
I can’t keep the cork sealed on champagne dreams.