We don’t talk much.
The hours, days, weeks,
Time speaks for us.
Stitches in the fabric
Woven by indifference.
Though we have loved,
The weight of life,
Bears the burden now.
This waltz we dance,
Where flesh never touches,
Where the heart’s feet feel not
The pieces of shattered shards.
Were we really only reflections
Or did we just exist, together?
You will frame your answer
But there is no sense to the words.
There is complaint in the passion,
That wheedling, nagging, binding,
Coldness where once was warmth.
The chemistry of age
Gave us this day of limits.
And, we know not where or why,
We wandered into it, together.
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour