Seeking that place where you forget the names of things
she sits down in her gray corner
waiting for her eyes to get tired and heavy.
A bit numb she remembers
that sticky smell of the lake
as her fingers pass down her face
but the greasy skin is long washed away.
Her dry skin that got cracked by the peaking sun
in a time where she could laugh and feel every line of her smile
knowing that there she will be warm
and just maybe for then be filled with life
is now what is missed.
Missed is the melody of the old rusty strings
from that old moldy wood
played in the same step
both at sunrise and sunset
as the dancing morning wind around her hair.
And especially missed
is the often made buzz
by the crumbled fingertips
when they miss a string
and make him blush
and even more when she smiles.