Indigo

[Querida]

her fingers draw spiralling swirls upon a striped spread
and i wonder what joy lies out of her mind's reach
for her heart is already there
playing upon the tendrils of the wind
dipping, dropping, skimming, simply skipping
along with the dews of rain just rained

there she is again, searching my eyes, I rather stare at the mould spackling the crumbling ridges of this neglected hall. Why can't I have some peace of mind? I feel, yes maybe pity and even an affectionate exasperation. There are too many expectations that I would rather fufill, uncertainites that I can handle, I work towards them and complete them. This...this I have no clue about. It is but a foolish dare that I refuse to question or pursue, whatever it is, it is merely subjective: she will be on a high, on a low, not on earth. Objectively it will all pass in time.

her fingers dodge the tears that stain and splotch the spread
i need no one to tell me that there is no joy where she is
her heart is sand struggling to become stone
yet with every beat it crumbles further drawing forth a new tear
dripping, spattering, inching, tracing its salt trails
questioning the hope that dies alone and still
without reason
yearns
towards its
neglected
home