the secret life of daydreams

So it seems
As the deepest, saddest, slowest trance lingers on a melody
A glance, once in a while, that caresses slightly, a touch even
A sign to which sounds fly over the silvered wings of time.
Feathers caressing skin like the shadows of a branched tree, a cloud
Warm heat flowing as the touch of yellow sun on the skin and the heart,

and trough window,
the answer to the trouble,
As it should be, waiting for Mister Darcy is meant to be cruel and lasting
Hurtful
Endless.
Just as written…

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Otherness, for all of what it’s worth, doesn’t sound as bad as loneliness. Odd feeling though, one does bring the other, and walking away has never been my best trait.