Nothing.
No soft pitter patter,
Nothing.
No sweet lullaby.
Oh, how I wish,
The song would start.

You asked me once,
if I'd written about you.
I'd smiled as I shook my head.
With every word I write, a part of you settles on the page, amongst the ink that never dries fast enough.
Leaving smudges across the page.

I used to believe the reason I picked up a pen, sprawling ink along a once pristine page was to rid myself of you.
Word by word, drawing you out to settle amongst the ink that never dries fast enough.
I reflect on a night, spent with a lover.
My hands refused to settle,
agitated by the urge to write.
Long, shaking lines made up the letters trailing around my bare legs.
A whispered voice calls me to return, the urge is gone.
Perhaps the writing isn't for the abandonment of you. Perhaps it is the last of you - all I have now.
Muddled amongst the ink that never dries fast enough.

A silent movement
the sun becoming entangled among the bright shimmer  
of each delicate wing.

Microscopic gusts of wind
propel the critter forward in tiny flutters,
the sight bringing such joy to each onlooker that beheld it.

A child runs below,
clapping small hands together as it's joy overflows into the world around it.

But there is a man,
many years have hardened his face to the world.
as he sits
on a bench
the happy families,
the small child,
walk,run,skip,
straight by
without seeing a thing.
But he sees
and he knows
of what disaster such beauty can cause.