Churchill is a special place; Right in the middle of Alcona, Perched on the shore of Hubbard. That place was small And the paint was chipping from the posts, But it was ours, For that weekend, For eternity.
Unsure of the neighbors, Or not caring enough about them. Unpacked bags And candlelight.
That was when I had you And somehow, you are still mine, Yet managed to slip through my fingers Like the sand that you stir up as you swim.
The wind is an echo of your voice, The windchimes; your laugh, But I am fine. That is what I tell you, so that your worries can lay at the foot of my bed, Because 13M is your job, Worrying for me is not (it never was). And I am fine.
But had it been my choice, you would still be here. Not 1,000 miles south of home, And surely not in Fort Sill Where the sun is unforgiving and the blood runs cold. You would be here where the wheat grows over the railing And where red clovers rest on the windshield of my car.
Or, we would be at Churchill Which was a special place. About four hours from home And where eternity was cut short. I have learnt patience for you, though (and from you), And I will wait. No matter how painful, No matter how long it takes for you To come back to me. Come back to me.
I love you. I loved you, I do not think that I do anymore. I did once, though, More than the setting sun Loved Pointe Inn.
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