he, the lone teleprompter,
it rings, the voice, still, silent
he calls, always, I answer

our minutes, then forbidden
by all, who grovel, hidden
alas- they won't take my love

serendipity, it drips
rose fingertips, and winter
it arrives, each time, too late

a ballad, perhaps essence
bittersweet recollections
who we were, your bruised children
who we are, long forgotten

intertwined, a shared thought
remember, how we forgot?