A flimsy cloud over the Boston sky, Clumsy farewells and kind goodbyes, Why have you come to see me off Shaped like a leaf as feathers light? My tea is cold, the gruel is dry, Christmas offerings slide me by, I won’t be long and neither will you, Flying off whenever we are due. And our solitude is such a crime In our brief existence, in our brief lives You won’t rain and I won’t cry, Days will vanish as they come by. Or maybe our solitude is our prize That I pen down my words while you draw my eyes, So precious has been our fleeting intimacy Cradled by the earth and covered by the sky.
To Write 