Wishing Well
I don't know. You tell me.
I remember that one late August night,
Watching the moths mob the lantern's amber
Light, the summer wind playing with the flame,
Your ebon hair, swaying, caressed your neck.
I saw you swallow. I envied your spit.
You looked upward to the wild country sky,
The wide universe's starshine echoed
In hazel eyes, not mine, Oh Lord, not mine.
I stop to wipe my eighty-proof tears, and
Check my pockets for the past twenty years.
How strange, the one thing that's still the same:
Your name inscribed on this old paper heart,
But apart from that, I've got nothing but change.
That's good, you know. So maybe I'll let go.
A shining rain falls down to the stones,
And I can't believe all the things I've done.
Silver lights shimmer in the wishing well,
Striving to become myself
Without you.