Trepidation, like silent blades, cuts into my mind

Wondering if, after another try, our hearts will at last align?

What choice remains that we can make to leave the hurt behind?

Or will tomorrow be the talk we have for the final time-

My thoughts dwell, perpetual, on days that now have passed -

Of trips and dates, forays and waits, and seasons of the past -

Can these times we shared together be so easily left at last,

Can we forget and move on again, forsake what we held fast?

Will what I feel and think ever be naught more than gloom,

Will I find a reason for my burning passion to resume?

Or has that wick been expired, the bud nipped ere to bloom

And the branch upon which it gently laid fallen all to soon?