Your name is that of a flower,
but one I cannot mention.
Your surname is that of a mountain,
but one I cannot climb.

You smiled at me with those baby teeth of yours,
almost as if laughing at an old joke only we knew;
and your eyes, by god your eyes,
I could still see us many years ago.

We held hands under a blanket once,
remember that?
We've grown so much my precious flower,
but deep within we're still the same two children,
the ones that ran out and hid from your father.

I still see the obscurity of that armoire,
when we first kissed.
I still sing that Elton John song,
it reminds me of you,
did you know he wrote it?
It was probably about us.