Flitting

It's getting dark outside
The winter cold almost upon us,
I know you are thinking about me as I am about you.
We are cut from the same stone,
pebbles in a stream of consciousness,
eroded, uprooted and heaved
into different corners of the world.

Morning surrenders itself
into a haze of melancholy
hanging grim from a pale moon.
And when it's eight o'clock
I'll catch a faint whiff of your favorite perfume
as if you had reached the bottom of the stairs.
But that's all there is,
the door won't open and you won't come in.

I'll come back
before you start to forget my face,
before the glory of the sun fades on your cheek,
before the tern returns to it's nest,
before the thunder reaches it's peak.