Site icon Angie's Diary

In Late

In Late
I would be the laughter

sitting on the bench
blown at by the sea
of which you will gain rest.

The staircase obscured by your step,
the hand deprived of strength
which will enclose yours
in the winter of your life.

But I began to love you
in the wrong hour,
the one that keeps me
from your heart
and makes me punctual
to our fare-well.

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