Sometimes on sticky summer nights, whilst police sirens wail in the early darkness:

Though it was a paradigm of misery, and we both left with bruised broken hearts, I wonder if it was all that bad, really, what we had.

Because, some would call it young love. And that’s how young love works.

But you, you call it young foolishness, and I have more than distinct conviction that you regret.

Of course, it’s different now. And we both know that a smoking candle can never re-kindle.

I’m sitting on the other side of the fence, here.

The grass is greener, too and perpetual spring sings folksy lullabies. Summer is but a promise and winter a distant memory.

And sometimes, I creep away from it all, and I peer through the slatted fence. And it’s not lust, nor love that I feel, but a belonging and loved feeling that I miss.

For, even in pleasant pastures, not every lamb has company.