I die inside when I feel her slipping away,
to places I wish we could share, too empty now is where I sit,
with closeness neither here nor there.
She seeks something that was all around her,
but refuses to acknowledge. No time, for me perhaps but
evenings and weekends for others,
she poses riddles written in rhyme.
Will I ever see her again…….
Steve B 05/08
 
 
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