My heart is but the souvenir
reminding me that you were here,
but now you’ve gone,
my mind plays tricks with stones and sticks
my eyes see you,
the image sticks,
but now you’ve gone.
If only I could wind back time,
take back the words
then we’d be fine,
of this I’m sure,
but the clock goes on its tick-tock way
each day takes you so far away and
all I have’s this souvenir,
a broken heart reminding me that
you were here
but now you’ve gone.

© 2015, John Smallshaw.

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