Attempting to remember the touch of his lips on the surface of hers, a tear found its away amongst the light creases of her porcelain skin.
As if in delay, her longing for his hand in hers took away her soul like night stole day.
Perhaps a faded scent to others, but to her it was all too familiar, all too reminiscent.
A close of the eyes and a strive of the memory, she saw herself in his arms once more.
An illusion.
A complete confusion.
To whom to turn?
Potentials stand in line, conclusively impatient.
But of importance they are not.
Because her pains too run deep, and her words obligated she must keep.
This was good. It makes me think a lot. And thinking is always good, right?