Your Shadow

I am on my bed, pen in hand, but, oh, your shadow across this window. My eyes stare out as blank paper, my hair converses, leisurely, from my shoulders, but, oh, your shadow across this window. My forehead stands defiant, mutters lowly, my mouth remains still, unknowing, and my nose so stiff at attention, but, oh, your shadow across this window falls flat and broad and dark. It reaches burning fingertips to that gallant shine, my soul, always demanding attention. And your voice searches for the cotton of my voice to find it has a new texture -- that of sand at high tide. But, oh, your shadow across this window stained into the glass or my memory.