Face In the Window
I see your silhouette, through my window,
caught in the moon's light, on the far hill,
as you sit alone, where the stone seat is.
Once we were young lovers.
You live on the cobbled road, where the stone gates are,
and I,
above the store where my father make shoes.
I still carry the scars from those days,
when we were young, innocent and fragile.
You opened your heart, to a young lad,
far beneath your station.
That summer was alive.
We picked fragrant wild flowers,
taking turns placing them in our hair.
We covered every meadow unseen,
and swam naked in your father's lake,
that lays below the hill, where the stone seat is,
beneath the elm.
It stormed the last time I saw you.
The etched sadness on your face,
covered in tears.
Your fists pounding the chest of your father's man,
as each stroke from his whip cut deep,
deep in my back, screaming the words,
you don't belong.
My blood spilled that day, as I laid for hours,
unable to move, balled up, rain pouring down,
as the ground ran red.
Over the years scars remain,
tattooed reminders.
As I look out my window and see your silhouette,
under the moon's light, alone and haunting,
I remain a store keepers son,
Wondering, always wondering.
While you sit alone,
do you cry like I do?
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