Of all these years we stayed
up late with dreams of false futures,
drinking last drinks by dim glows
from television sets, telling us what to do.
Of our courses have collided.
Are the once-imagined lives still alive,
budding on another tree?
Bearing fruit like ours?
Or were they mirrors of insanity?
Of glass words from lovers' mouths and ours.
Of fake foundations in hearts and homes,
existing only in our heads and easily slung.
Of all those years asleep in darkened rooms,
hedgerows, park benches and the backs of cars;
awake in offices and wards and corridors,
seeing ghosts that were never there.