What is there twixt yourself and me?
Love? Hope? Three hundred miles?
There’s the horizon and naught else to see:
We frown as we cannot see our smiles.

I’ve spent two months short of a year
Waiting to sweep you off of your feet,
Four with your voice within my ear
Whispering words, loving and sweet.

We met and danced at the last ball
Then weeks we laughed and cried and talked
As summer slowly waned to fall
You lay at home whilst streets I walked.

You lay, my head in hand, in bed
Whilst I held yours in autumn night
We’d speak until our phones went dead
Or till the sun gave morning light.

Three months have gone since we spoke last
Of summer plans and separate lives
Our love has fled us much too fast
And now it dwindles, soon to die.

For months you’d been my one addiction
But our paths may never cross again.
Yet I will not dismiss my hopes as fiction;
Aurevoir, my love, my dear, my friend.