footstep

It's funny, I know. For to be thinking, not about myself, No. I'm thinking about your soft arms, Your precious hands that cleansed my wound, Your starry eyes, and your quiet legacy.

It's calm. It's quiet. Then, like a swelling tide, I've washed up on your shore. I clench the sand in my seaweed-covered hands to such a billowing extent until they tremble with strain, until I shriek in confounded exasperation. Then I lie there, in the sand, face down. Close my eyes, and just imagine you. Wisper out your name in a disconcerted tone, Because I know that I'm still in a dream.

I've set up a place in my mind, And I saw you in broad daylight. I've deceived myself. You're only an image. At the night, I see you again. I reach out, But you writhe and disappear before my eyes. I don't understand the pressure in my brain, The seconds of time passing by in a funnel. The choking sensation of this cotton smoke, The meaningful nothingness of this feeling. You were never and ever there.

Every time I leave through the door, You leave through a door in my mind. Every time I bite my tongue out of stress, You hide away in subconscious edifice. Every time my legs ache and my nerves pinch, You dive into a deep lake, and swim into a cave, recluse. But every time I return back home, You climb out of the icy water, drenched, but spirited. And every time I take off my coat and hang it out to dry, You clothe yourself with the warmth of sentimentality. And every time I turn off the light and lay my head to rest, You remember, and lay your head next to mine.

She wears a feather in her hair,  With a thin and gentle frame. She bears fiery hazel in her eyes, With but few and quiet words.  She has a bright smile, unmatched in heart, The pulse of love's resounding throb.