Mileposts stand like sad clowns between us, their bobble heads nodding and weaving from my door to yours. They note the times and places we should have shared but didn't. That's why they're so sad. A cold wind comes. It's harvest time, but the moon is blood red. Dry stalks burn in the fields. Mothers cover babies' eyes. There is empty cackling heard in the halls. Black mists swirl about the mountain. For years it's winter cold. Icelocked, our breath throws white fragmented plumes. We stare accross the wide chasm. Immobile, I am frozen in a mad rush toward you. You shreik at the frost which buffets you and tears at your gown. Your eyes so blue, I swear I see them crying from a thousand miles away, your face pale and white like the snow. We reach and reach, throwing the ache of our hearts against the howl. From sheer force of will our spirits touch, high above the sky. At once we are whole. The wind quiets, warmth breaks through the clouds, a gentle rain bathes our faces. The clowns are smiling. We see rainbows shimmer in sunshine. The black earth yawns, stretches and squeezes green life from clinched fists. Bells ringing in the village, sheepmen say "Good Day" to the Smythe, the Cobbler, and the Cooper. Alone in the tower, we entertwine, we can't hold back. Tears softly flow. Wrapped together we breathe each others perfume and laugh at our ackwardness. We kiss the only kiss that satisfies love. Then sleep, dreaming tomorrow
:: Tom 2:07 PM [+] ::
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