London Poem: Day 301

14 June

One day gone,
The sounds are softer
And break apart, cracking
Like tiny slivers of ice
Under foot, but I still hear them.
I hear the long, sonorous cry
From months past; I can hear the moan
For love in what appears to be my ears,
But as just in memory.
Sound or dream, I hear it,
Making it no less real, and the
Longing for one last look
No less painful.
In recollection, steps not taken
Stand bright against the love
I wish I could give now.

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