In No Time at All

July 18, 2003

Those lazy Sundays, lounging in the bath,
when I sang to myself some song I couldn't sing,
and the water turned tepid too quickly,
they are the days I miss the most.
Life was just a chain of dandelions,
tied one to another under amorphous clouds,
while people walked up the sidewalk
to enjoy a perfect summer day.
I would have been imagining other worlds,
I may have been giggling at my imaginary life,
but no one else would be in on my joke
as I rolled over the drought-brown grass.
Those were the days before I believed in love.
Those were the days of freedom and creativity.
An escape, of sorts, before the storm came,
before my silly heart began to ache.
My few lazy Sunday summers were too short,
too full of such hope and love and joy.
I know now that they were truly living days,
for they eventually died, as all life dies.
The light of innocence faltered and burst,
the purest love faded, and the desire began.
A fog covered my world in gray obscurity.
In others, forever after, I sought myself.
No more comfort and safety to encompass me,
instead a dread of the world turned my eyes
down to the floor, I shied away from everyone.
I was no longer a vibrant, fascinating me.
I can look through the glass of the past,
see her smiling back at me through the mirror.
I don't want to break her, so I keep her there,
unwitting of, untouched by the me I am now.