The ache of a wasted life is more than I can bear

We met at the olive wood, you and I,

when you were sick and I was lonely.

We found company there, you and I--

but not in each other.

You preferred the grass and trees,

while I preferred the sun and sky.

You preferred climbing and running,

while I preferred sitting and thinking.

We were old there, you and I,

old before our time.

We didn't know it then, but we would die slowly,

locked in each other's arms.

Mother said it was a good match.

We complemented each other--

or so it seemed.

I never paid much heed.

Father pretended it didn't exist,

He smoked his pipe and read,

till that one day in white--

he got all misty-eyed and kissed my cheek.

You didn't want to love anyone;

you were content with running and climbing.

I was a convenience;

an agreement made to stop motherly nagging.

I didn't think much of you,

but you worked hard.

It would be nice, I thought,

to have someone else pay for my things.

You always made good money,

so that worked out.

I bought books, a library full--

and you were glad because this kept me quiet.

We were lonely together, you and I,

and one night it ached too much.

We locked arms and drifted off,

never to rise again.