Cold rain for eight straight days in May
You did your best to hold on
Alone in your apartment, your body relearned
My phone calls went unreturned
Back at my place, took all my books
Threw them in a cauldron, I stirred as it cooked
Turned them into white, hot custard
Fetid and useless and bubbling with bluster
On the ninth day, we met for lunch
Your eyes came alive
When the music shifted
A record forever coded to a former life lifted
We were cocky kids, we were told we were gifted
We drifted
And the half-life of confidence
Leaves us with less and less
Still I dared to believe
That you had set yourself free
Between bites of stale bun
Coaxed by dusty slats of sun
The rinds of our little lives unpeeled
And in new light gently revealed
The sense of all we do not know

SUBMIT CORRECTIONS