More of It

June 3, 2003

There are the silent nights
of soft, cold hands that tried
to hold onto me over such long distance.
There are the cold days, now,
in the rain, where I sing
and believe in that voice, still.
Those days have fled from me
so fast and so excessively.
Do I have any time left at all?
Can I still reach out to it
and know that the years cannot
distort my need to live in it?
Countless days between us now.
Countless times I have wondered
if this was even real at all.
In dreams, it seems I recall
the sweetest voice singing to me.
In dreams I still hear it.
Even now, just a hint and I look
and I find out the hint is real.
Even now, I am still listening.
There was never a hope to complete
this particularly necessary union.
There was only me and you.
We only have a short while
to breathe and to live
as though all is possible.
Chances taken mistaken.
Chances missed and remiss.
Chances for others, not me.