It all made some sort of odd sense until then,
until the wine glass sat beside the red mug,
and foolishly discussed what we would become.
Apples or cherries, what difference does it make?
Whether full or red, the desire bled the same,
out onto the dusty shelves of our sullen lives.
All so clear at the start, and you there in the dark,
a strange confusion built on a remnant of a spark,
cracks in the wall, wear and tear of it all, and silence.
Chipped paint, is it French Country or simply decay?
With no one here to tell or make sense of it anymore,
of that day that we met, endless years that we spent-
wondering how our one ever became our two.