what was it,

on that day the sun cried

it’s happy tears, when

those children, a boy and girl,

frolicked among a field

of daisies, white

and frayed.

we were sitting on

a bench,

brown and wooden,

just like the few others

littered around.

it was so obvious,

(i realise)

the way your face held

onto a fake mask that you had created.

what was it,

as our thighs slightly touched,

so little that i’m sure

you didn’t notice, as we

roamed so far apart, our minds in different worlds;

yours, i think, was

not too far from those

frayed daises, trampled upon by

a boy and a girl.

i remember, on that day,

the breeze greeted us

playfully, tapping us on the shoulder, only to laugh as

it ran away, hiding.

i remember, when i looked over;

your eyes were empty,

looking in the direction of

the children, and i

could almost see the slightest hint of

a tear,

slowly running down your

cheek.

you can’t catch up to time,

i realise (it’s too fast).

so may i ask one question, just

one last one: when was it

too late.

too late to hold your hand, to

talk to you, to

use my hands, which warmed up yours,

to gently take off the mask that

you used to cover up any

misconception,

any fear that you saw,

to reveal your face,

forever wet from countless tears.

and as those children played

among deceased daises,

_you know, the ones with

your hazel eyes and

my dirty-blonde hair_

where were you,

as the breeze no longer jested,

and i sat on the bench with

cold hands.