but you stab me like a maple and the sweet gooey syrup gushes
Luscious in my mouth, the words travel south as I mumble to my feet
“When will I next meet you?”
Neither of us knows the answer
We don’t bother specifying
“I’ll see you when I see you”
We don’t bother lying with plans or expectations of what’s to come next
Simply accepting what’s left.
the unknown
No comments:
Post a Comment