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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Emotional · #2211168
About the first (and last) time I met her
Her hard edges begin to soften
In the early hours on the grass.
I sink into her softness,
feeling protected.

The air arises crisp and cool,
warming to a dull mist as it surrounds us.
We breathe the mist, and our limbs grow heavy
while it ameliorates our thoughts.

Our bare skin is tight, dry, and brittle.
The air cools again, and is harder to breathe.
Clearly, these early hours do not
Welcome our fantasy...

She fell into the mist, a part
Of the crisp air;
Having been only briefly a part of me,
she floated on.

Reaching out to hold her, she scatters,
at One with Nothing.
Her desire to be lost to me
survives as her only reality.

Futility to try and describe her,
the mist will not be held.
Only the crispness of the early air
can clarify her name.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2211168