Most days are laid out in front of me
Like freshly ironed sheets
Everything seems so new again
Unfamiliar, Uprooted
A part of me feels too old to learn the tricks all over again
To reconcile myself to the new ways
To the new world of yours which you inhabit so effortlessly
I long for the familiar old room
The walls that have heard so many of our whispers, our tears,
The window that saw us through many rains, unspeakable heat,
The old ways, the old life.
Most of all I miss those Sunday mornings
Walking to your place before the world woke up,
before you woke up,
climbing into your bed,
And you would smile half asleep,
and that meant everything to me.
.
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