Every hand has about two chances to die
Waiting for the right kiss
Or the perfect reply
It’s hard to leave beds half made
Or fall up the stairs
But somehow you have found the will
To make a love seat out of adjoined chairs.
Well some days are silver and perfectly
But ever since you left with all you took
It’s been all pewter and falsely hued
Shoved between old magazines and this faded book.
Marveling at the folded moments that aren’t
And taking in the in-between chances
Until you arrive and retrieve me from me
This longing heart will dream of an in-the-flesh-romance.
Winter longing lovingly,
You have spent far too much time already away from me.
