by Barry Vitcov.
Before meeting one lonely evening,
before our lives had completely begun,
before we knew little of anything,
before accepting how to love or shun,
our lives were separate, invisible,
like shapeless clouds adrift in darkened skies,
our stories not easily admissible
and always firmly protected by lies.
There you sat, an alluring melody,
smiling, laughing, with a sense of warmth.
All these years later, what we heard, didn’t see,
was really our music played back and forth.
When the music of dreams arrived as truth,
a pleasant harmony, enduring youth.