Every time we part it leaves me trembling
With memories of things best left forgotten.
And if I wished I could forget, I think,
But forgetting gives nothing but release from pain
And casts away the gift of a passion's winter afternoon.
That day's needs settle deep inside me
And I will not speak them out
And every inch of distance kept, a thorn
But each a thorn that I will bear, bloody though it is,
My fingers curled about the stem of the rose remembered.
Back to the Book.