There was a time
Once...
Long, long ago
(or so now it seems),

That You
Being the elequent (and yet awkward) man that you are,
were the kind of man who (without prompt)
went out of your way to do romantic sort of things.

Hardly were they anything as eleborate as gifting fine jewelry,
or a dozen red roses,
or even boxes of chocolates,
no, no

you were (and perhaps still are),
the kind of man who wrote poems,
who dedicated songs,
who went out of your way to express love
in ways that were not material.

But still so Sincere were the ways in which you expressed yourself,

And although these days seem to have passed from existance (eons ago it seems was the day of their passing)
I do not sit now,
with pen and paper,
to write out complaints of days gone by

For this is a tale of neither joy nor woe.

A Tale not of anger, nor strife,
nor any other strong emotion
that most tales of this sort are written to express.

Perhaps, it is a written account of my curiousity.
of how, as these years have gone by, you have evolved
and I too, have grown with that evolution.

For even though we don't venture out into the world
alone with one another
for we generally take with us friends and loved ones,

And you,
That beautiful, glorious person you are,
have delved deeper into louder, more agressive (and somehow soothing) music,
and have strayed so far from the romantic ballads
that you once used to send to me,

I do not weep for those days,
For even with their death
came a sort of comfort
that I have seldom known before.

It is as though the cute, romantic days of our early love,
blossomed into a love that, words cannot express.

And no amount of Well-worded poems,
or Love songs,  or Cards;

No amount of gifts,
like fine rings,
or overly-cute stuffed bears.

Could ever compair to the emotions that run deep through our hearts,
like rivers flowing along side one another,
that as years pass,
slowly errode away the earth, and stone of contemporary love,

And, as they do so,
they take with them the overgrown weeds of dime-a-dozen love songs (even though I cannot help but cherish each and every one),
and wash away the insignificant problems everyone faces,

And someday soon,
those last few bits of rock, and dirt,
with fall away.

Leaving only one river,
that will flow strong, and pround,

until one day,
a story will be told,
that there was a time,
long, long ago...