Kohl. Kohl in her eyes. I am walking past. Flicker. Half a turn. She gazes at me and then she didn't. There is infinite time and space in that split of a second. I am bewildered. Confounded. Relentless is the splatter of rain, beyond that window. I am somewhere there. Lost among the rushes of droplets. As I watch them scatter and merge into dust. Dust that is settling. Settling as she soars.
I cup my hands, hold it together. That what she is letting slip. From between her fingers. Do I cross her mind? In days like these, when she sits still by that window watching her world drown, drench, soak in the flood of downpour. I wonder does she remember? Relegated to the confines of a dingy box, do I reappear? Tear across, through the membranes of closely guarded secrets, those heavy sighs, her dewy eyes?
As she uncoils herself from her perch, I touch the mirage. With my edgy fingers. The folds of her interwoven aura slips open. There is something there. Lined in that Kohl. A lost certainty I cannot access. Did I cause that shade of dark in her eyes? Am I there in the deluge of torments. The one that she never said a word to. The one that she looks for. Skeptically among the fallen leaves, trampled and worn. Torn but nestled among the pages of her books. Scribbled tentatively along the margins of obscurity.
I cup my hands, hold it together. That what she is letting slip. From between her fingers. Do I cross her mind? In days like these, when she sits still by that window watching her world drown, drench, soak in the flood of downpour. I wonder does she remember? Relegated to the confines of a dingy box, do I reappear? Tear across, through the membranes of closely guarded secrets, those heavy sighs, her dewy eyes?
As she uncoils herself from her perch, I touch the mirage. With my edgy fingers. The folds of her interwoven aura slips open. There is something there. Lined in that Kohl. A lost certainty I cannot access. Did I cause that shade of dark in her eyes? Am I there in the deluge of torments. The one that she never said a word to. The one that she looks for. Skeptically among the fallen leaves, trampled and worn. Torn but nestled among the pages of her books. Scribbled tentatively along the margins of obscurity.
No comments:
Post a Comment