A Drawing
Has it been seven years,
Twelve maybe,
Or countless lives
Parted by yearning eyes?
Like the tide drawn to the moon,
I always find you.
It’s not a search,
Yet it’s a drawing—
A blank sheet every life,
Redrawn until our paths align.
A maze that turns into a map,
Slowly drawn, directing our path.
Unknown to all,
Yet the moment is clear
When your hand touches mine.
There are no more years.
- william goynes