The scent of the moonechoes across my skin,
leaving a trail
of color
to mark her path;
tracing delicate
patterns of oneness
in my veins.
Oh, to be light again,
she whispers,
to hold a sunbeam in my cup
and spill it out into the world...
This rhythmic waxing and waning --
the melodic drift
from full to empty
and back again --
is wearing thin,
and breaking down
the walls I built
protecting me from you.
* * *
1 comment:
Wonderful blues; they are the first thing I notice. I like especially how the light falls, both in the image and through the words.
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