with the memory of you growing transient as invisible ink
The horizon line is not static.
The horizon line swallows, eats.
I stare long after the black dot
which now only exists in my
mind's eye.
The black dot which is you.
The miles in front of me extend,
bend, and grow, gaining velocity.
The miles behind, shrink and shimmer.
Lead me to a mirage of the past.
The West Wind of you grows, blows in
strong and sure. I am the East.
Above my cyclone gathers.
Hot air smacking into cold.
I am the cold.
Creating emotional violence.
I am the pinprick of loneliness.
Only the storm gets me noticed.
The swirling of emotions too will
eventually dissipate.
July 10, 2013 Copyright All Rights Reserved By this Author.
Melissa A Howells Meloo straight from her Tilt-a-World
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