She is with me, as real
as the winter snow that blends
the tear upon my face.
And it is only when I try to touch her,
to make her linger yet awhile,
that she dies all over again.
A snowflake in my hand,
she is like a fragment
of melody that I find myself
humming unawares.
Evasive and elusive,
a song without words,
a song with no end.
While somewhere else
as I now say good-bye again,
as shadows of my shadow
pass before me, somewhere else
a pup leaps to greet
the morning sun, harmonic with the world.
I miss my girl,
| Sunny |
| 30, Jan 2006 |
| Marta May |