The dawn of our hopes

I am sitting on the bridge of your wonderful Florence painting, thinking, when in the dawn of our hopes—talking, listening to the questions we knew, to the answers never told, how I enjoyed your company. My hair is still long and messy, my eyes are still wandering. I still like to listen to Taylor, the Boss, to the sounds of silence on the roof, on the bridge over troubled water.

I've been so absorbed, unwillingly at times, in finding my place in society. Are we too selfish to appreciate, or is it society's fault? Could we have lived a different life? From this one? Why couldn't I love the way I wanted to?

It's been a while, but I am still me. When finally you read my name, we will stop the time, we will walk across the bridge and paint the sky again.