White hair; hand in hand.
Cobbles bubbling underfoot.
In and out of those mellow streets.
Looking for a place to rest our weary heads.
A moment, and only one.
A story, linear in structure.
Start to beginning – irreparably unchangeable.
Headlights, street lamps, stars;
It does not matter.
For her hand is cradled within my own,
And too, that spark inside my chest.
Though, it is a figment, a twinkle in consciousness.
Reality’s benevolent, illusive friend.
Yet, the feeling, it is anything but.
That inner glow, burning, luminous.
Under trees, and beneath flickering lights.
A city awake in the deepest hours of night.
A vessel to portray my inner thoughts.
With her hand, and her hair,
That unrivaled feeling that cannot compare,
Electrified in such a place,
Simply waiting for the moment,
When it might all fall from grace.
And then, what is one truly left with?
As the Land of Night fades.