The path is the same;
Same crisscross of black
And churned up river bed,
The crash of the trees
And distant symphonies
Of trains, of traffic,
As I take each step.

Booted feet shine with dew
And I think of you.

Was it here? This patch?
This green and yellow halo
Shines dully, idly
And I think I can see that night.
Not like its clear
Or that you're here,
A mirage of some other you
Some other me.

They're echoes,
They shout beneath the bridge
Scream up at the bricks
And let it echo
Echo.

That other me
Stranger in this suit of now
Did love and laugh
And cling,
Every little thing was kept
Even worthless poetry,
Those naive ode's to love.

I remember it was cold
And I was slimmer, thinner,
Cut away and wispy
In the chill.
And you,
Were you.
I probably don't know you now
And never will.
Our worlds are fleeting
Changing like seasons
And in cliche frays get
Blown into non-existance.

A stranger promised
And clung
And wept.

But I am now
Fitted and anchored
Not melancholy
And melodramatic,
Whimsical of a time
That I rhymed
In a desperate attempt
At the nostalgic.

That was then
And I'm not yours.
Not anymore.