written for a rainy day

And so he doth stand there staring
With perfect blue eyes into the space
Between us

If he could hear me from mine own space
Across the room I would tell him how he
Is one of my literary creations, one of my many narrative creations, one of my stories
For a rainy day borne on a rainy day, at least that is what he is borne of, I would say

But he can't hear me, so I must go closer
To those collosal chestnut curls, to look
To touch, perchance to kiss those rosebud lips that grow from a china face written in
Ink that runs like a river across the page
Of his poppied cheeks, collecting glacially
In his pupils

And so I move closer and the apple of my
Image - what it was that I had narrated, as such- faded, no, crumbled like thine own
Heart and he was but a word written in
Ink on paper borne on a rainy day, blotted
By something, reality perhaps.

Thou was better observed from a distance, my friend.

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