There’s a strange familiarity
each time I hear your voice.
A lover’s lament seems to shadow you,
In sunlight or the deep-dark of night.
You wear a widow’s mourning clothes
though a ring on your finger keeps you bound,
your brimming heart fills with emptiness,
as Love’s Machiavellian escapades
repeatedly wear you down.
I swear I have seen your face before
in another place and time.
Perhaps it’s the similarity
of the dilemma that we both have to contend,
the yearning for a love more complete
as we once dreamed it would be,
or a searching for something new,
first to find in ourselves.
I have no answers as to why things change,
they just do.
But I know that control rests
in how we react to changes too.
So next time we meet, wear colors of orange-bright
Open all your windows and doors and let in the shimmering light!