Sitting in front of the vintage girandole that undermines your beauty, Running that oak-carved brush through your disheveled hair, when you look out of your half lift window at the starry night, carving out imaginary crimson clouds out of nowhere, I often imagine flying by, behind the dark of every passionate night Your eyes make love with, as you look.
standing up slowly with your carelessly draped night-gown, walking up to the newly white-washed window pane, when you pull down those calico curtains slowly, the innocently playful breeze kissing u for the last time, I often imagine being a night cloud, seeing you beautiful as always...... your locks flowing all over your freshly nurtured cheeks, and you desperately trying to hold them back with a smile!