Sitting on a park bench.
The silver moon above.
Freezing air blowing,
spreading falling leaves all around.
You brace yourself,
wrap your coat tighter
as you sit alone.
Chilled to the bone.
You have an address,
a house, but no home.
She walked away.
When and why,
you can\'t recall.
You slipped into a living—
where there was no
warmth of life.
The mirror broke someday.
She liked it that way.
Said the fractured image
showed her
how broken
she felt.
When it turned September
the picnic was over.
But why, O why
couldn\'t you hold on to her?
She left the broken mirror,
and the expression-impaired psyche
of yours,
striding into a new light.
A goodbye spoken,
in absence of good;
never noticing your
silent tears.
You didn\'t cry
for your loneliness.
But never forgave yourself,
for the tears she had shed.
The leaves shall come again,
snow shall melt.
The moon shall rise again.
But would your love,
your life, your wants
ever ring
your doorbell?
The snow covers you,
the chill is felt no more.
In your final numbness
you wish with fervor:
She shall find her true love.