She will hear you. Somewhere in the shadows of silence, she will listen. Attentively at first, and then her eyes, wet and dripping with nostalgia will signal that she can no longer listen.
She retreats to her day to day. Melancholy stops by from time to time, perhaps to keep her company. From time to time she dresses up and dances around midnight, twirling in her bedroom, between the curtains. She reflects back on those memories, deeply ingrained and always near her. Those are her scars, her friends in passing. Part of all the things she is.
But where would she be, without him. Where would the fire and song cling to. They may dissipate into nothing, into a collection of photos and scarves and the types of things men keep. A collage of forgone conclusions and tired acts that just simply don't mean as much anymore.
Well into the morning they blend into colors, unmistakable blemishes of truth, desire and romance. They reveal their solemn embrace, rarely seen by those who choose to keep their eyes shut. These stellar regions of yesterday and today become entangled in their own history.
He will hear you. Somewhere in the shadows of silence, he will listen. Attentively at first, and then his eyes, tired and burning with despair will simply succumb, into the horizon. He waits as does she, as does the world. Guardians of our dreams and desperation. Lovers of the fall and the rise.
