that these years
didn't just pass by like a bubbling fountain
or the algae tinted jets at the memorial park
Someplace to stop at at the end of a stressful day
to look back at with fondness
or to use as a backdrop for your larger days.
How many times will I go to spell "your" and instead spell "our"?
How many white knights do I have to turn jade(ed)
before I can disengage
the sense for you that twines itself throughout me
(or the sense of who will wake me at story's end)
A tangled nest of briar vines without a bud
or fleur or wilted petal
in the whole dreary mess?
Even the tower will crumble into dust before leaving
Not even my day dreams can stretch far enough
for me to think
that I was part of your molding Twisting Shaping
or the formation of who you became
now that time has worn away the varnish
That I've made without impressing
An ounce of me.