Time and space erased seasons
with an escape plan of wishful thinking.
I’m living on your borrowed time
without a glimpse of grace,
fading in the forgiveness I’d
saved for your sins,
sins for which I knew I’d have to pay.
It’s bad enough that you dug
your own grave under the maple tree
we’d said we’d spend forever beneath.
I’ve been clean of your love for some weeks,
but I’m relapsing on the taste of the autumn rain;
on drunken college nights,
we’d open our mouths to see who could fill a cup to the brim.
You were first;
always have been the first love of mine.
She was digging the foundation of a home we’d share,
confessing the sin of falling for me
well before she knew the meaning of love.
(© 2022 AC)
Drink Coffee Write 