There Is but You

There Is but You

 

Yet, in the end, there is but you

To make the morning and to speak

 

About the things we know or knew

And reminisce about the week

 

Sometimes a week is two or three,

Some months ago, or many years,

 

And you remember more than me;

And as I sigh, your smile appears

 

You mention something I forget -

I question, what? and wonder who?

 

And as we close this old vignette,

A glance defines the me-and-you

 

Yes, in the end, there is but you

To keep me in the bounds of day,

 

And chat about the things we do

Before the morning slips away.[1]