I sigh again, but it is as
Though you have become
Immune to the
Sounds of my discomfort

Indifferent to the tears
That soak my pillow
Late at night

Sliding effortlessly
Down the ridges and planes
Of my face
Draped in a thousand shades
Of sorrow
The shadows dancing
on my hollow cheeks.
Sunken and demure.

Your eyes stare in my direction
But my motions don't catch your eye
You prefer to ponder,
mesmerised,
by the faintest
Movement outside the window

Your brown eyes wide
And bathed in sunlight
The colour of honey
So distinct,
But lacking its sweetness

Follow the hustle and bustle
Of the Parisian streets,
As your hand lifts,
ever so slowly, from
resting on my shoulder,
Onto the ledge.

You've made up your mind.

~ZA