Discrete I stare, her eyes are lost in a book,
Upon the curve of her shoulder blade falls gently a thin curtain of night,
And then I escape - it's hard to bear alone what swells in that secret place inside.
Along average conversations, our eyes meet, and again, I let mine rest a fraction long,
That fraction where I see reflections in her deep brown,
And feel alive magic;
They are little windows, these stolen extras, and I enter softly into her soul.
Occasionally, she feels the intruder -
'What happened?' Smiles, and we dismiss it together as passing breeze;
She is innocent to disguise (I am safe),
Her every feeling crackles like a fire inside,
And upon her, I can tell it by its glow.
Memory is rooms, and on a white wall in the one I stay,
A collage of her expressions rests as a painful masterpiece;
And in there, one is only her hands,
Slender, her steady hands, deep nailpaint fading at the edges, and a plain silver ring.
Cold was that smoky night, walking a yellow lit road,
Her voice quivered, she broke upon me stains of blood,
Rapt, I heard - lashed by an endless winter storm, she's the leaf that did not fall.
Dust swirls in the city sky, everything fades ***** brown,
But, in the break of her smile shines a catch of light;
When did dust ever settle on light?
Would he remember, when dark shadows creep, where lies the light,
And every little thing that would bring it to her eyes?
Would he stay till the twilight of days,
Or will she one day walk alone on a summer evening like today...
I will still be there - the shade that she searches, or a cool draft of breeze.
Who would he be?
I wish he's the someone who remembers where lies the light.