Somnambulism

I'll look for you in the deep, cobalt blue of a mountain lake, or the startled crake of a moorhen, flushed from its nest, or the idle word, said in jest over a steaming mug, as we huddled and shrugged off the cold and damp round the guttering lamp that attracted the moths and the tales of weird Goths that inhabited the wood in which we stood, as we pondered the stars and named them as ours in the time before now, as my furrowed brow, struggles to forget that we ever met and did all that and, here we sat, planning our tomorrow with no hint of the sorrow that I was to face, without you, in this place, here, where earth meets the sky and we questioned why it had to end, asked why lovers can't be friends and, in the end we instinctively knew, we two, me and you, that paradise had been lost, that was the cost, of our liaison, our raison d'être, held hostage to fate, and now, too late, I cogitate on what might have been and wonder why I only dream in black and white?