I heard an old song
Sing its pain;
It reminded me
Of us again.

Old songs do that:
Sifting their tune,
Cradled on lost stars
And a forgotten moon.

The words aren’t the same:
They are rusty hooks
And dried old flowers
In dusty books.

It always befalls
That the singer is me;
And what we were
Becomes his melody.

It’s three minutes
Of our past;
Yet, it’s these three
That will last.