The thought of leaving you grows near now,
But I shall return.
And while I'm gone others will replace me.
I hope they appreciate you as I do.
I hope they look out on you and feel what I felt,
And I hope they go home and try to put it into words,
But can't. As I have.
I hope you change their lives, as you have for me.
I hope they build and destroy with you, as I have.
I do not want to be away from you and what you hold for me,
But it is not you who controls that. You are merely a vessel.
You carry with you my hopes and dreams,
My love and fear,
And that scares me. I have invested in you.
I tore away years for you, years I will never see back.
You have changed me.
I am different to who I was before, or so they say.
But they are gone now and it is you who stands before me.
You and those who you carry. Those ideas and attitudes and experiences.
I have to leave you soon, but I will return.

We first laid eyes on you over drinks
and a late dinner in the Latin Quarter,
a short stroll from the Spanish Arch,  
its historical significance gone
in a heartbeat along with expectation
of ambush by austere beauty
on those wind swept stepping stones
Inishmore, Inishmaan and Inisheer.

The River Corrib rushes
beneath Wolfe Tone Bridge,
grainy and black as your liquid
image on the screen,
countless heartbeats of moonlight
mingling quayside with the sea
in a salty embrace that stings
my eyes and seizes my throat.

The windows of St. Martin’s
frame the timeless river.
Chamois cloth of morning
lifts the stubborn tarnish of dawn
from its braided embellishments.  
We tuck into our full Irish and drink
the watery coffee while you float
outside of time in your brackish sea.

We first laid eyes on you over drinks
and dinner in the Latin Quarter,
a short stroll from the Spanish Arch,  
its historical significance gone
in a heartbeat along with all
expectation of ambush
by austere beauty
on those wind swept stepping stones
Inishmore, Inishmaan and Inisheer.

The River Corrib gleams
like vintage vinyl beneath
Wolfe Tone Bridge,  
grainy and black as your liquid
image glowing serene on screen,
countless heartbeats of moonlight
mingling quayside with the sea
in a salty embrace that stings
my eyes and seizes me
by the throat.

The windows of St. Martin’s
frame the timeless river.
Soft chamois of morning lifts
the stubborn tarnish of dawn
from its braided embellished tales.  
We tuck into our full Irish and drink
watery coffee while you float outside
time to the rhythm of the tides
in your small brackish sea.