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Rated: E · Poetry · Other · #1285936

A thumb to the East

December, sharp light screwing my eyes
Remember my window ledge?
I sat and watched you
with thoughts of SanFransisco
beating my heart.
Your voice cutting through my pane.
the stains of memory.
Distracted images of the spring travel,
and the mystery of our closest neighbour.
I pressed my imagination for the contours of your form.
Bourne away, with free will upon your opulent wings,
you calmed my ebb through the stars.
Now as I look down
i hesitate to return.
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