A year ceased to the known, crystal to each other selves of their own, clear as day, but the day's long agone. Her voice still etched in his ears, and as it appears, it sure won't be gone for years. Years to come, years to go, will there be another to the known? each day passes in this question's wake, another day of talking and giggling over something his mama baked? will there be yet another night skinny dipping down the lake?
melted in misery battered in blue pitted in pain since the day i met you folded in falsities sifted in sad cut in confusion didn't know it was bad whisked up in woe diced in despair garnished in grief but it's not like i care