Out Of My Book
We sat by ourselves, still looking for company;

there could have been peace, but that eluded me--

all I could think of was what was on your mind.

You tried to be kind,

but I blocked your feelings.

Now, senses still reeling, you sit in your quiet room

and cry.

You tried to make me one,

but I always hide when there's a glimpse of sun.



Running along in sunlight meadows

your eyes were never more than half-closed:

through fluttering lashes, you watched me watching you.

I tried to be true

to the way that you thought I ought to be

but, in spite of all my efforts,

I failed.

I tried to make you see

but your eyes were blind to all but the bad in me.



What do you think I mean

when I say that I need you?

How am I supposed to seem

when we hit another problem and the answers

are all torn from my book?



Our lives are on paths we just can't control;

we can grow closer as we get old....

Can you imagine us as we adjust?

Can you imagine us

getting near eighty;

we live more sedately, still hoping the dream will

come true?

We'll try to be secure....



But I'm of uncertain mind

and how can I be sure?

how can I be sure?

how can I be sure?

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