I am struck by the lingering glance you pass over your shoulder, and the smile that dimples your cheeks when you discover I never looked away. So sure of yourself, letting your fingers brush over the tall grass that bows and whispers like a chorus of shy little boys. Should I follow, ignoring the lump I cannot swallow, and the clumsy path my words might follow, as I watch your gray silhouette, distant, getting grayer as it pauses, skirting the trees? Your eyes, the blue of winter’s lips are now the blackened specks of ash burning the bottoms of my feet, and thawing my frozen nerves. You try your best to hide the fluttering smile on your face, as I neatly trace your path. But what will this fool say when he reaches you, when all that fills his mind is what might the warmth of your hand in his feel, on a quiet walk through the purple light of dusk?
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