The sun was leaving the sky
with beautiful ‘orange' blushes.
We had a long, long road in front of us,
painted with green strokes of beautiful brushes.
Our two tiny figures
walked on and on;
My eyes were feeling her eyes,
her eyes were feeling mine,
Maybe never at the same moment,
but always at the right time.
We talked about many many things on our flight;
about literature and poetry,
about movies and design;
I don’t remember our words,
but I remember her moist beautiful eyes,
my thumping unsettled heart,
and her slightly quivered voice.
I remember how she looked back at me,
how her name spelled life;
and how her rosy lips curved back
into her milky white cheeks.
The sun was leaving the sky
with beautiful orange blushes;
the kind of orange which sparked
with our slightly brushing arms.
We talked about love,
and a little about hope;
but I have to admit
that our words were futile,
for what our eyes did under the dusking sunlight,
the words could only try.
But time has always been time,
for we reached a bus stand on the long, long road
and I knew she had to choose
the red bus home.
The sun was leaving the sky
with beautiful orange blushes;
the kind of orange which flames
over a burning wood;
and like wood did our moment burn,
turning greyer and greyer,
slowly blackening to ashes.
As she boarded the bus,
my hand waved a goodbye;
and I knew in that instant,
my sun had left my life
leaving me with beautiful orange blushes
and a dark, dark sky.