a sound which becomes strongly associated with nothing more than her soothing breath
the echo of the wind becomes the remnants of her laughter
the protruding streams of sunlight like her gentle touch upon thy face
the warmth carried by theses streams ; the warmth she offers with her tender hugs
time as so passes as though time spent with her
for like a poorly written book ~ that ended all so swiftly
awaken with newly found melancholy
to find her not as though had dreamt
beside me all this time ~
I usually never ask for anything I don't think I deserve, but could you be mine ?
No comments:
Post a Comment