And writing about our joy never seemed to do any good

And writing about our joy never seemed to do any good.

We could never remember it that way. When it counted

it left us quickly, tracing shadows and hunting pride. 

Sometimes I wish I had known you, and sometimes

I realize I never really had. A reason to call home

when the days were dark. Or when it was right

in front of me. You would remind us of our days 

that had slipped into months. And then fell 

through the floor. We so carefully guarded. 

And watching the rain. Soak our fears 

as much as our laughter drowned,

over there, above that din. And under their boots

we will find ourselves again. Utterly and completely

alone.