aching …

she is real. i know she is.

she kisses my days. she caresses my nights.

she is real. i know she is.

she wraps her gentle breeze around me. inflaming me. and i stand still. ablaze.

lost in the whirlpools of her eyes. drowning in the kisses she sprinkles.

she is real. but not with me. she is real. but not with me in this life i carve out, as i squander regrets, wishing i could find a voice to shout.

she flits in and out of view, her beauty imprisoned me decades ago, now i have no clue where to go, whether to breathe a new life anew?

no, most definitely not, i will cherish her kisses, even though they were but a few. i still taste her mouth, as fresh as the morning dew.

she is real. she always has been. a fiery comet blazing across the canvas of my life, blank though it was,

she poured stardust into my heart, killing me with her touch, even as our moments were broken, weaving between clocks and time, after we had in each other, wildly melodic passions awoken.

she had been real. as real as these tears blotting my cheeks, as real as the half-empty bottle that of stale bourbon reeks, as real as these thorns that stab my feet as i try to walk, as real as the needles that silence me when i want to talk.

as real as a love caged in a box, the muffled voices distant, faint,

while her hair filled the skies with pastel paint.

she is real. she is. she is real, she always will be.

she is the one,
who set my soul free.