I remember that one late August night, Watching the moths mob the lantern’s amber Light, the summer wind playing with the flame, Your ebon hair, swaying, caressed your neck. I saw you swallow. I envied your spit. You looked upward to the wild country sky, The wide universe’s starshine echoed In hazel eyes, not mine, Oh Lord, not mine. I stop to wipe my eighty-proof tears, and Check my pockets for the past twenty years. How strange, the one thing that’s still the same: Your name inscribed on this old paper heart, But apart from that, I’ve got nothing but change. That’s good, you know. So maybe I’ll let go. A shining rain falls down to the stones, And I can’t believe all the things I’ve done. Silver lights shimmer in the wishing well, Striving to become myself Without you.