Hear the pitter-patter of rain against my window
A soothing beat of drops on a pane
The distant chitter-chatter of the television next door
A whisper through the wall
Mumbling a soft murmur of bliss
An utterance of a memory long gone
A day spent lying in the damp sun on a Sunday afternoon
An eye drifting to unconsciousness; the bliss of warm sleep
A disregard for time, an innocence that has been framed
The calm wave of bliss is no more
Instead, a future caught in the wake of pain.
Pain that grasps you by the ankles,
Pain that starts with a kiss.
A feeling that is seeped into your core like blood on white threads
One that you could dismiss,
Perhaps a perverted illusion that you can not understand
A touch moving down; one you wonder if you feel
A confusion of a frantic mind that has you bound in chains
And you say to yourself, illusion is not real
A feeling, a memory, and illusion,
I can not tell if it is an illusion at all

Andrew W.
12-23-20