[This could have been called, “Old Poem, Written Age 25,” but I chose to retain its original title, even while heavily reworking the content. – Owen]

a few weeks, all it was, and yet

you linger in this air –

your presence was reality

and more than everywhere

the past is gone, they say, and so

i should just let you go –

but you were my first happiness

and it’s still all i know

and now, life’s fallen by the way,

and so much seems a waste —

and words we say seem fake, next to

the world we touch

and taste