Transatlanticism
The warm light of an early evening softens the shadowsthat were once dark and bold.
A cool breeze sweeps away the dust
from the path on which we stand.
The sky is one great pink petal balanced gently
on the warm orange of a sunset.
The leaves of the trees lining the path hush the world into silence,
leaving us to speak.
I see you, as I once saw you before: before Hurt came
and brought tears to cloud our eyes.
I part my lips to speak; lift my hand to touch your face.
But my fingers feel nothing, and my words are not heard,
for you are no longer with me,
and what I just saw, was but only a dream.
posted by liquid @ 9:57 PM
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