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.