Eleven at night

I miss those days with you when we could drift
across the city thinking we would go
around the world. How little we both know.
The summer shyly brought you as a gift
but now the leaves are yellow and morose
and you are gone. I still walk the same streets:
the same cracks in the road, the wooden seats
beside the stream, the parks, the calm repose.
Whatever – it’s history now. The autumn shades
the day with encroaching evening and the trees,
aflame with gold, are crumbling. In springtime
the cherry blooms will kiss you in the glades
and all I will hold are scraps of memories.
Some streets away, some thoughtless church bells chime.

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