Fret

She wrote

It seems like a hundred autumns ago,
When your eyes rained on me,
Like a storm and a drizzle all at once.
Only I had looked away
To hear another song.

Now the shadows of my empty vase
Swell across the emptiness of my room,
And the smell of old roses
Swimming in the breeze,
Loses its way.

I become a nameless prisoner
To Fear's eye and Reason's tongue.
And a tide of unheard songs
Become fitful shadows
Vanishing into silence.

But in the afterglow of the day
When butterflies from a distant moor
Wash over my face like rain over parched soil,
I wake up; my dream remains half-dreamt
Only its fleeting whisper beckons, "What if..."