If it was always this way,
always the night and never
to set foot in the shadow
at noon,
always on time, but never too
soon and the skin on cold coffee
as wrinkled as I,
I might as well as a shell on the
shore wonder and wonder if there
could be something more
than this.

Listen to me,
and I sound of a sound far
out in the sea
where the echo gets lost in the
waves.

It probably is all relative,
to each and the home.
But the sadness of something
that I never had or knew
sweeps in with the daybreak and
It's this
that makes me blue.
So I walk light on the snow and
try not to damage the flakes,
impossible really, but they say
it takes all sorts and out of sorts,
out of step, sinking below where the depths of my imagination
are overhung by the hanging ivy of my ego to see where I go.

I know a little of little and count when the evening flickers a large flock of sheep, sleep eludes me.

I leave it like this, but so glad she remembered to kiss me on the way out.