I wish I could tell you,
That smile that you miss,
Or the smell of her hair,
And the taste of her kiss,
Hadn't passed by like every,
First line in a verse,
Away from its start-point,
For better, or worse.
I can't, though I want to,
Help bring back that bliss,
And it means little now,
But I can tell you this:
You'll both laugh again,
When your time here is done -
At a bench 'midst the green,
In the warm summer sun.