The Lover of my youth called the other day,
We talked of a young boy, a young girl,
Of dreams, of places, of two cats in the yard,
The longing was in his voice.
There were our failures laid out in front of us,
Things we could have done---should have done,
There were successes and goals reached;
happiness and the color of the skies
And the longing was in his voice.
And as I hung up the phone,
I found that the longing that I had heard,
was not for that young girl
or for the old woman that she had become.
No---the longing that I heard was for that young boy.