Linger

The ink lies on still paper.
One follows the markings and finds
the shallow depth of its message.
A cold, uncaring, numb apathy
envelops every lightly etched page.
Age matters little to the messenger.
There is silence, a blanket to chill
an afternoon of simple warmth.
Emaciated arms, as ice, reach the heart,
grips it with unfeeling vice,
ripping it apart.
The sun has left;
the room is dark.
Its weight bears down
and immobilizes the place
from a sense of space or time.
Time struggles to crawl.
It falls time and again,
lifeless eyes staring into
its futile attempts at empathy.
              Breaths are raspy bed-fellows clamoring
for proper position.
It is too crowded in this room.
Steps, thunder on hard, wooden floors,
venture from home and into sparse-lit streets.
The mind wanders down cold memories
and distant intimacies;
soon finds itself at an open door.
Inside are glimpses of starlight
and simple wonder.
The message in hand, a burning flame
cupped in the palm, grows dim.
Welcome arms call, pulling past
the door and into familiar embrace.
The taste of tart strawberry on lips
lingers on the tip of the tongue.
There is hunger for more
but as soon as mouths caress,
they just as soon let go, all at once.
Questions fill the night
             like starlight blinking, winking from afar.
There is silence, intimate and sincere.
             Wind strolls past the ears,
as hands let slip the piece of paper
into evening air.
There are only questions
                                          that linger.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Something to think about.

Cheers!