It wasn’t you, it wasn’t me,Up there, two thousand feet aboveA New York street. We’re safe and free,A little while, to live and love,Imagining what might have been –The phone-call from the blazing tower,A last farewell on the machine,While someone sleeps another hour,Or worse, perhaps, to say goodbyeAnd listen to each other’s pain,Send helpless love across the sky,Knowing we’ll never meet again,Or jump together, hand in hand,To certain death. Spared all of thisFor now, how well I understandThat love is all, is all there is.
Wendy Cope
9-11, death, loss, love