When I think of you and me –
me, myself and I –
it’s clear we are a story
So many ways you can tell it – it is still all news – and it seems forever unending, overused.
The wonder of being this – this ephemeral bullshit – grips us in a vice unforeseen, overlooked. If changes happen in summer – summer of our youth – we wouldn’t know what to do undecided, overdue. To sense a new beginning – beginning of the end – brings doubts into my mind unready, overspent. Like a bolt of lightning – lightning overstriking – suddenly we start anew never changed, always true.