Every night at half past eight
A boy would sit and strum
His four-stringed Ukulele
And wait for her to hum.
His music wafted down the wall
Two stories to a girl
She never though quite could tell
Where it was coming from
But every night at half past eight
Together the pair would play
Simple harmony, a sweet duet,
Not caring what neighbors would say.
He left the building, missed just one night,
Came back at a quarter to one.
Played his part, but with every sigh
Was not followed by her song.
After searching for a sign of her
He found that she was gone.
That night he’d missed, at half past eight.
A solo was her last song.
So every night at half past eight
Alone the boy would strum.
Silent regrets
were now his duets
Wishing back she’d come.
But this time when he saw a girl
Dancing to his tune,
He set the Ukulele down
And went to meet the girl
In your lifetime- all those faces
People come and go.
Our job is to befriend the ones
That make us feel at home.
Because so many just slip by
And leave us standing stiff,
Wondering about what might have been.
Or simply just “what if?”
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