This weekend you’re writing again and

I’m thinking of you alone in

a room I’ve never seen

wrestling with demons I can’t see.

I only read the finished word –

finished being a relative term,

finished for this minute till

a new idea intrudes,

a better word, a deeper thought,

a clearer way.

I am thinking of our time together –

long ago now. We didn’t

treasure it the way we should,

we carelessly threw days away,

laughing at them as they went,

and now we’re left with echoes of the

laughter and our words thrown like

dice, shifting and turning with

each throw, telling a new

story each time.

by Cher Bibler