To Be Where She Is
Ghosts have all but abandoned this lonely place. It's just me here. The cold, drizzling rain is relentless, yet calming somehow. Marble stones lodged in leafy pastures keep taunting me. Autumn was her favorite season; the rainbow of colors, the tantalizing smell of decay. Odd how beauty is most evident just before death. Feeling so drained. The park bench beneath the willow provides some respite. Branches sway in the breeze and caress my shoulders tenderly as if to comfort me. Before long I slip into a dream:
A hummingbird, flitting before my eyes, wanting something from me. Holding out my hand in invitation it gently alights. Time stands still as we gaze into each other's soul, desperate for a sign. Then it happens. A solitary tear drops into my palm. Its warmth sends a chill down my spine. And then she's gone.
I wake to the taste of salt upon my tongue. The rain has stopped, evening approaches. Time to return to my nest, as she has to hers. Why do I keep returning to this wretched haunt? There is hope where she dwells now. Her tear was for me, I'm sure of it. Loneliness is a kind of death. Death on two legs. How I dread the coming of winter.
life in monochrome
crimson and tangerine dreams
to be where she is
Copyright © Tom Woody | Year Posted 2023
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