It is how creamed silk might feel,
when breath is a soft wind blown.
Holding fast the last I love you,
will tomorrow sign the verse?
Contemplation creeps like ice,
as her blues swallow the sadness.
Now the heart is empty in hallow,
where the passage of love stands.
A sigh of a violin chord drawn slow,
as only secrets of the silvered locks.
Feint in fade the small sounds stare,
and only the moon knows her nature.
The repetition of a beat missed,
only to far long ago and still warm.
