Sometimes upside down and at others, in that haloed light of oh-I-can-do-what-I-couldn’t- when-we-were-together, sepia tinted and hollowed of the right to feel the heart go cold once more, just once more with the fear of being alive, without being together.
And in the future where sunshine doesn’t fit into our closed palms lying on each other, lies no darkness more than what is required to find some torches, candles, motorway lights, whatever it is that keeps starlight from hinting at lonesomeness.
But the past was death, lived all over again and again. Repetitive words, phrases, not even an iota of truth left in feelings hurled as accusations at each other’s already torn souls.
Oh what would it take to heal the nostalgia of a love that existed only in each of our lonely hearts?
Oh how I wish that those unborn daughters of shared love walked down the roads of Paris each day looking for romance in the old and the worn and the idea of a city, a time and of love.
But could anyone be loved the way they wished to be?
Bodies tumble but souls remain untouched or even the other way around.
Does something in between body and soul stop one from going into the other?
We broke down that wall once, maybe more than once when your eyes held mine at the end of the universe
Or maybe that was the beginning after all.
