pourquois?

it was a question of why
i said the things i
did, before my darkest
summer, after ridout
and downhill pillion-riding.

and a question of who
we were and who we
wanted to be, and all the
while, there wasnt even
much that we could be.

be a stevedore in an arab
port, sliding around on
a goan daze. 24 hours just
you and i, crazy. never a
question of what we'd do.

a little hint of when, if
ever, we'd do the things
we would [after we were less
young, but definitely before
our autumn fell].

but there is nowhere on this
earth, i know, nor in our
minds where there can be a
perfect fit of you and i and
time and place and why.

we were a question of who and
how, of time and place. but
always - more than anything -
of why and why not. why you
could not and why i never could.
why? summer past and autumn
fallen. why? why?