Monica

Both of us run to someone who knows something,
Only to walk back with our hands held tight,
Moving closer and closer until our arms become one,
To feel within Dreams the warmth of company.
Your name is my feeling of you,
The only thing I believe to be true.
I knew your black hair was somehow linked,
To my mind while we sat at the table,
Where a golden-haired woman sitting on another,
Showed me more about that something,
After which I remember your face was upset,
And you got up immediately to leave somewhere,
While I sat there staring, at a feeling,
Knowing not the before or why the after,
But only that I let you go.