Our shadows, like the evening, fall long
and lonely across the soft of new green.
I will cry myself to sleep again tonight,
wake up in the dark of morning to throw
your heavy left hard across my chest.
A man’s gloves are his own, yes; I know.
So I will fight my own fight,
and not ask you to understand. The sun
shines even as it daily dies, but the blossoms
I passed under not a week ago
already brown and fall. What if love
is not a sun but a blossom, and all
the moment we have, this? Will you
still walk alone? Will your strength be enough?