Snow falls quietly,
The old alley winds and bends,
The bookshelves are mottled, the dust gentle,
And the person I once met on a snowy night
Has already gone far away.
The book alley is still here,
The snow is still here,
Only that carefully hidden flutter of the heart, buried beneath one snowfall after another, has slowly been sealed away.
“Snow Falling on the Old Book Alley.”
Like the first glance and final page of our story.
Warm, aching,
And gentle,
It slowly simmered over the long years into a story we could never bring ourselves to open again.
The first snow has come,
The wind blows through the alley we once walked together,
The old tree in the corner, the battered streetlamp, the mottled doorplate,
They're all still here,
Only we
Have long since gone our separate ways.
The snow is light, the wind gentle,
The alley still remembers the sound of our footsteps,
But we're no longer here,
Only the snow keeps piling up,
Slowly burying the tenderness of those days.
No clamor, no tearing at each other,
Just a very tender regret.
