The sun kisses your little feet
He sits on the porch, newspaper in hand, glasses gleaming in the light
You skip towards him, ponytail fluttering in the breeze

The sun starts closing up
Clouds appearing
"Where are you?" you say
You grow older, hair shorter.
"He's gone, I'm sorry," they say

Within the mist, you don't know who's gone
Because the man reading the newspaper was just there