The Park Bench

Inscribed on the slats of a park bench, Where suits eat designer bagels, Is a heart scratched in to wood, immortalizing our brief affair. I used to feed the mallards, as you perused the horoscopes, circling the love sections for aquarius, and telling me mine, knowing i wasn't interested. Now you've moved on and I remain still, loyal to the possibilities that fate may bring, Not wanting to be forgotten, like the dead man on a weathered brass plaque. Loving you, It was like the gaps of blue sky, lost in grey clouds. The occasional shards of light through darkness, But the moment of light would be the memory, and all that preceded it would be unimportant. the mallards still come to me for bread, and the smell of dried bourbon still lingers, from the vagrant who slept here with dirty fingers. The suits still sit proper, as they slowly eat bagels, But you are just splinters, infinite graffiti, Of a time we once shared, That was not meant to be.