Too Much Thinking

You left me alone
At the top of the street,
And I went home
While your feet,
Encased in shoes
You did not choose
To lose
Took you back
Down your own track.
Or perhaps I lack
The ability to understand
Your hug and hand.

Now I wait
And ponder on sense
And the present,
Or the past tense.
Is it too late?
A pointless question to state
Perhaps.
To collapse
Into meloncholy
Is folly.

I have a choice
To be morose
Or falsely jolly.
‘Tis better to use my voice
And ask than to drown
My frown
In a glass...