Walking through the park
this foggy night, recalling
times of walking hand-in-hand
with a man I loved, through
this same park on other
and yet, I can not tell if
the memory is real or one
that I've made up
for there have been far too many parks
and far too many men I thought I loved.
All the same, the fog stirs up images of
walking hand-in-hand perhaps down a
London street, the sweet textures of
cobblestone are incredibly delightful
compared to the monotonous, flat,
gray concrete I tread upon here.
The dance of the shadows in the
glaring yellow street-lights
seem almost as real as my memories,
and a part of me wishes that I was
walking hand-in-hand with a man I loved,
who loved me, and yet,
somehow the mist that embraces me
is company enough this night.
Perhaps in another park
the man of my memories,
Memories real or unreal,
is walking in the fog
and remembering walking hand-in-hand
with a woman he loved
and a part of him wishes for her too.
Perhaps he would rather the ground
before him be a sweetly textured
cobblestone or a soft heather-filled
moor instead of a monotonous, flat,
gray, concrete walkway.
Perhaps one day we shall meet again,
if we ever met at all,
and walk hand-in-hand across a
heather-filled moor where the
mist plays in the light of the stars
and moon instead of
the garish yellow streetlights.
On a foggy night where
memories lie in a reality somewhere
between the solidness of the
concrete and the magic
of the mist.