Come home

These Oaks sing    
across the low-tide, under the estuary, over the rail paths, cut into stone,    
where our bones collide in darkness,    
where you sing, and curl my hair on your finger    
wondering    
where we lost strength,    
swayed too easy by troubled wind,      
where I share you with our borrowed time.    
 
How far are you, in reality?    
When I've sung our words, carried by your breath, my beat, our patterns on paper, a story of youth.    
     
These cars hum, echoing through the city streets, words passed by walkers on corners hung to dry,      
burdening their stories, more troubled than mine, for you,    
more troubled than who you are, who you might have been    
if I'd stayed too soon, turned it black, made it true, that poison caught my eye,      
it consumed my mind, came alone.    
See you, you needed a quiet mind      
to climb inside you.    
     
How well are you, in reality?    
I'm asking,    
when I've sung our words, carried by your breath, my beat, our patterns on paper, a story of youth    
that linger longer than I'd like.    
     
In these years we've grown      
and if I saw you,    
would I tell you it was possible, when it was never plausible,      
see my heart was no longer blind, could see what you might find    
without me,    
could see I would be comfortable    
in your comfortable      
instead of our    
uncomfortable      
     
drowning.    
     
Yet,    
meet me    
in the Winter,    
and tear down time, share tales of our better truth, run with our long rested    
wolves, fall like leaves, sink as roots into    
our old, chewed bones,    
a truth that never was, could never have been.    
     
A love lost in sheet rain,      
never unseen.