there was a we behind the i
in love’s times past, in days gone by,
and when i wrote, i wrote for you:
the you in we, the me in two
now you surround me, like the air,
much like a scent that lingers there;
i stretch for that forgiving hand,
whose ship left port before we’d planned
the you that was, much more than this,
the we yet is, is my belief –
and life, like many broken things,
sits silently amidst the still
of grief
