Dale Lloyd

In the subtle morning light I see him, always sitting there—
a handsome stranger, tall and strong, with rich brown hair.
Steel-blue eyes that seem to hold
deep, private mysteries untold.
He does not look that old, and yet
his youth appears somehow dimmed—
as if he once was confident,
but now his hope has thinned.

I could not say for certain—
yet the day that I drew near,
I thought I saw within his eyes
the glimmer of a tear.
I sensed he held a story,
one he longed somehow to tell,
even if it led us through
the burning fires of hell.

He welcomed me—a listening ear.
He spoke without reluctance;
there simply was no fear.

Once my heart was lost in love—
and so the story then began.
We did all the things young lovers do
when there is no plan.
Her touch was magic; her kisses
carried me beyond the moon.
We danced at midnight in the park,
strolled by the river at noon.

We ran through fields of summer,
tall grass brushing past our knees,
intoxicated by the sense
our souls were truly free.
The winds of summer tangled our hair;
we yielded gladly to their snare.
Such beauty, such amazing grace,
always shining in her face.

Then one day she was not there
in our sacred place—
no explanation, nothing known,
only a hollow, open space.

How could this be? I wondered long.
She vanished without a word—
and with her went our song.

Her rigid father came to me,
said his daughter was “not around.”
He had ended our young love,
sent her out of town.
Angry. Belligerent.
I could not speak a word.
The night descended—
and nothing more was heard.

But here is what still breaks me:
I look around, and life goes on.
Everyone’s—except my own.
Without her love, I have no home.

The sun keeps shining.
At night the moon still shows the way.
For hopeful lovers now engaged in games that young lovers play.
No one stops to hear my pain
or cares I will not rise again.

They tell me, “Get on with your life.
There are others you can love.”
But how can another ever replace
an angel from above?

I know the world keeps spinning,
but mine has come to rest.
There is no bottom, there is no top—
only emptiness, nothing much
filled with her face I cannot touch.

My ears are deaf to singing;
the stars are hidden from my sight.
There is no difference now for me
between the day and night.

Someday my heart will beat no more—
but there’s no need for a sad song.
In truth, it never beat again
from the day that she was gone.