It's always in spring, that memories come to mind; flickering candles at midnight, an old photo, a rose from an old bouquet, pressed between pages of a book, a love poem that speaks words I did not say before you left. I sit there on the bench and breathe the scent of wisteria, as another day passes, another day to pretend the shadows on the wall are you and me as we used to be, not a wistful mirage spawned by yearning. If forgiving was a solution, and this vigil I keep, while looking for even a trace of you could bring you back, would it be the same? Funny, how even in my dreams, I can't remember the color of your eyes. copyright April 2002 Judith Anne Labriola
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