I can remember it so well,

the bed of roses where we lay,

the crown of thorns I was so keen to give away.

All the warning signs ignored,

the passion's played.

I could foresee what was to come,

I had a sense of what might happen.

The river runs and very rapidly

becomes a torrent, sweeping us

towards our ricochet.

It takes a lifetime to unravel all the threads

that have tied us in our webs of tourniquet.

I stake no claim on memory.

I stand on ceremonial quicksand.

I look for something with solidity

to hold:

something lasting, something pristine, with no sense of

decay.

Can you remember how that was?

Can you remember?

It takes a lifetime's understanding of the flow

to surrender, let the current sweep you away.

What if I'd told you I would never let you go,

I would hold you every step along the way.

It takes a lifetime to unlearn all that you know

to return the things you borrowed for a day.