It's not for you.
It's not for the way you were,
Or how I dreamt you'd be.
It's not for the walks along the river,
It's not for the icicles on the trees,
Nor for the dizziness of the night
Or the balcony before the moon.
And it won't be for the future,
Of distant talks,
That won't happen.
It is for now,
And then.
It's for how God mowed the clouds,
And lying on fresh grass,
And for bridges over streams-cum-roads.
It's for climbing frames, and colouring autumn leaves.
It's for you, and your spirit and stories,
And being there again many years passed,
Still inspiring, still seeing the world,
Still the one I admire.
It's for clarinets and flutes,
And talking for hours on the phone,
About boys and life and where we're going to be.
And being back here now,
Dancing, laughing, bridging the gap.
It's yours, you with your room next door,
And dancing all night long,
You, who understands the night,
And who I call with tears.
It's for you, painting pottery,
And buying bracelets and fudge.
And watching the sea fade with a bag of chips,
And feeling like I'm home.
It's not yours - you with your timeless lies,
You with your illusions,
You with the past.
It's for hope,
And Disney movies,
And painting nails,
And purple shoes.
It's for now,
It's for us,
It's for me.
Author notes
For my friends. They've picked me up, they've put me in taxis, they've danced and sang and laughed. This is for them, and me, and us.
Adding your comment: