Same Old Story

I wait for you
On this couch
Near the first place
We had kissed
Telling myself
Old stories
From a time
Our world had hope

When summer air
Did wane
And autumn chills
Grew distant
As these hands
Which reached for solace
Found forever
Being grasped

Though my fingers
All alone
Plucking strings
Of stiffened metal
Strum at chords
That say them better
Than these memories
I can’t face

But receive
Through open notes
Broken tones
And partial ballads
With such sadness
Barely measured
From one melody

Speaking songs
My silence wills
Amid hours
Made of panic
Passing judgment
While I’m pacing
Towards this future

Fearing death
Appears as fast
Among dreams
We’ve come to witness
Are those wishes
Growing dangerous
Where fruition
Takes our breath

Finding God
Between her arms
Stealing life
With every smile
Taking steps
Far into heaven
Never waking
If I must

Just remaining
So she lives
Falling ill
From being frantic
Knowing love
As real as this is
Has my tragic fate
In store.

– J. Pigno


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