When she speaks...

As I ebb in the tide of another reverie, I ponder her. She would be the death of me, if death was not callous, was not selfish; if death was a indefatigable gift. She would be life, if life was not suffering, was not unsteady; if life was a brook that need not babble, but flowed mellifluously.

She would be love, if love was not confined, was not bound; if love could eve mimic her tender sounds.

Oh, but when she speaks, God is silent.

And so, my words are deaf to the tones of anything, save her September voice.

And so, she will inspire the magnificence of my dreams, and the paucity of my words.

And so, tepid etchings will not bring her back to me. Will not spur her heart to beat to the stanzas I lay bare at her feet.

And as I dream now, of her peerless face, I whisper (and always shall), requiescat in pace.

Goodbye.