Mist

Out my bedroom window I can see the rusted and tinned
Roof of the old appliance factory, and the March wind
Blowing the leaves rustles tattered thoughts in my mind
That I’ve tried in vain to leave behind.
It was August, the sun must have been blazing
As we hopped along that roof, yelling and amazing
Ourselves that we were acting like children again.
Yet the burn of the tin is absent, the joy I must’ve felt then
Is lost; its strange how memories can twist and deform
‘Til you wish they’d break like icicles in yesterday’s storm.
As the sun sinks and day falls backward into night,
I find myself lost in shadows cast by the streetlight;
I don’t believe a heart can be filled to the brim
Then vanish like mist, as though life were a whim.
But then, maybe life is part of the mist,
And maybe we all just will ourselves to exist.
Maybe someday your face will slip from my mind;
Maybe, just maybe, time will be kind.