It
was not his charm, or generosity,
Rather,
it was his wit, and mystery.
How he looked past me but caught my eye,
With
his bare hand,
Touched
the very bit I thought was far gone.
Thoughts
lingered long after his gaze was no more.
I
stand here,
Wishing,
crying that with a single breath, he will remember the touch.
I
brush my arm beside his, and the scent catches me,
Warming
my heart, making my eyes wet with tears,
For
I know my right is on my right.
But
I was never one to follow the rules,
So
I decide to run the yard,
After
my rescuer, the poet with words that cut like a sword,
I
will run after.
Happiness
comes to those who want it,
And
mine is no different a story.
Curse
me if you may, but run I will.
Come
with me, dear.
I
know not where to lead you,
But
I shall hold your hand.
His
scent will be our guide,
His
smile the never-ending light at the end of a bright day.
The
grasp will never be loose,
For
thoughts of his warm embrace will linger through many a day,
Every
step farther brings us closer to the poet,
For
the cause that stands before us is bigger than you or I.
Run
with me dear,
To
the happiness that is the poet.
Sometimes
the right on your right, is wrong.
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