we used to hold hands, as we sung by the sea
we used to drink shots out of Gatorade cups
and giggle and laugh for it was only chamomile tea

we used to spend nights telling tales about love
we used to paint our minds’ saintly dreams
and sadly sigh, with a smile in our eye,
because, nice as they were, they were lies
they were lies

we used to take walks for hours on end
we used to drive from night’s dusk till sun’s dawn
and fill our time with wishes and wants

we used to plan for our days of old
we used to plant seeds that would grow into trees
and count down the days till the world was our stage
because that’s what our hearts, fickle and young, told us to do
told us to do

we used to write stories of kisses and marriage
we used to pen lists of dresses well-hemmed and jobs well-paid
and envision young women, put together and brave

we used to kindle romance with a wink and a nod
we used to boast about futures, both here and abroad,
and fall asleep watching the stars
because the idea of fate, so mystic and foreign, was ours to take
ours to take
but now
when the picture is painted
and the book written and sealed

but now
when the road is driven
and the letters stamped and posted

the daring dreams and wishes
the fake crushes and kisses

where are you now?
Am I dead to you?
And you to me?