I had better things to do than this,
than you,
Summers back in the middle were hazy nowadays,
as they should be,
setting in to an ashy fog that belonged to nothing but nostalgia,
and life was good,
it was,
it was very, very good,
but it was not my life,
not yours,
and certainly not ours,
I think I got on some foreign locomotive,
and I had trouble descending those steps,
back onto the platform,
back here,
And while the Falls brought many reconciliations,
we were all distracted by the cold air,
and the romanticism of the changing leaves,
these were just scenic dioramas,
they were indeed,
But now,
in the dead of winter,
we can write our epitaph,
you and me,
and we can talk about the demise of devotion,
the aspersion in your voice,
the indelible moments of your departure,
but who is to say,
what all that should say,
anything, I suppose,
something,
something better than this---
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