There are times/
When she called me “sweet man”,/
And I recall silly rhymes/
and her shyly taking my hand
As we sat late at evenings/
by the fire’s warm glow,/
and talked of dreaming/
And things we should know.
And I remember thinking/
And being in her space,/
and wandering around/
And feeling content at her place.
Now, I dream of perfect Christmases she holds with her kin,/
And wonder if somewhere, some heart will let me in.