we’ve retold the stories
of our lives like prehistory
so many times we forgot the white morning
or the gulls that drove us
to listen to traces of infinity
we become our own museums
sort of broken accounts of what
happened to us, a thousand photos later
we still can’t tell you the truth
about ourselves, that’s second-guessing
or the lack of objectivity with self
the sun leans low on the trees
of our youth, it passes faster
than you can name your old favorite songs
driving home, the moon draws close
we left our city lights, hoping
to become somebody we could respect
i love’ed you all day, all days
and felt the intimate street lights
bathe me against all my worries
which seem in retrospect, a bit petty
heat won’t leave the pavement
until night is almost over
and we’ll do it over all again
for the last…
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Viv Drewa - The Owl Lady 