up until too late...

i would like to think that you are somewhere writing me letters, or perhaps a poem? of how different
your mornings are, now that the sun shines on your side of the bed while the moon keeps to its corner, watching,just watching you squander the night away.

perhaps one day, i'd get a call, the phone singing your name, and i'd hear your voice trembling, drowned by the soft breeze, your words muffled, unclear.  instead, i'd hear how the wind ruffles your hair and dabs your cheeks with soft longing, the promise of your return, soon, one day.

until then, i'll keep weaving a drape of many colors, like the shirt you used to wear, mocking the grey skies and the storm of despair.

should you return and find me gone, find the drape in the closet which key you kept. remember? your guitar would also be there. i would have kept the floor clean so you can lie there, as you wait for the past to return, strum the hymn you last heard me play...