The breeze wraps itself around
My wrists like a blanket,
Lending a spiritual warmth
To my otherwise exposed skin
Between sleeve and pocket.

It is the movement of the
Air on which he walks,
A part of his heart left
Behind at that nondescript
Bit of pavement near the
Bus stop.

I can see the bleach in her hair
And the flimsiness of
Her shoes, but all he sees
Are her eyes as they outshine
The winter morning Sun.

As they part ways, the beauty
Of the morning shines brightly
In his eyes, but it still
Fails to eclipse the image
Of her, or to distract from
The feeling of her lips on his cheek.

As the breeze caresses his face,
His eyes see it playing with
Her hair as she walks
Into the sunlit distance.

02/26/2008

Posted on 03/03/2008
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