The vines you used to draw along
the edges of your notebook
how delicately you entwined them
just like you did your hair
they fade away
you hold on to the notebook for years
to run your fingers across them someday
only to find that the ink has faded
and there remains only
The flowers wither away in a valley
and no one sees.
The tulips are rotting
by the bedside.
Let these lovely fields surround me tonight
where the wind effaces all my sorrows
and the clouds tell me that everything changes
that everything is worth living for
stories weaved in intricate panels
piano, drum, bass, drum, crescendo, repeat
the scent of paper as cultures collide
the hugs on a warm night
the dazzling, gaudy lights outside
the invariant abstractions
which funnily form a froth of insight
and all things constant – the universe
and when years have gone by
maybe, maybe you.
But the clouds solemnly tell me that everything changes
maybe, maybe even you
but everything is worth living for
and holding on to.