Ophelia's Wayward Muse: The Reawakening

The End Of The Beginning

.... intrigue about a tree, a man, and a cup of coffee

In this moment, I am simply a face
Pressed against chilled window-glass,
An admirer of untouchable verdant beauty,
Imagination turning forest to olive
Finally settling on shimmering emeralds.

I push away the relentless ticking of the clock,
Yet Autumn takes its reluctant leave, the fight
Solemnly lost with the ping of every acorn
Meeting the ground, an inevitable but temporary
Demise.

Across the room, tables wobble with weighted silence,
Heavy with invisibility as your face disappears
Lost within the well-worn pages of a book.
You are a rare gem, treasuring the paper and ink
Over the harsh glare of a blue screen.
The coffee that meets your lips, the turn of a page--
Sounds that are an invitation to a world
I can never know, yet desire.

Caramel-cappuccino eyes match muscled shoulders
Tanned deeply, a last remnant of summer's reckless regrets
Now replaced by crisp Autumn sensibility.
The cold shiver of approaching winter moves  through me,
Numbness taking hold of my spine as your stretches to stand.

There is a resounding closing of the book, your tall frame
Reminiscent of the splendour of the hearty oak
I imagine my face caressing, as if the glass barrier between us
Is irrelevant.

Seconds tick, adding up to minutes, and I shiver still
As your coffee runs cold,
The chill of wintry air that permeates my soul
Speaking in tones more firm that any words,
A finality more resonant than any look.

You do not turn back, not even for a momentary glance,
And another acorn falls, a melancholic resignation
Of Fate.
No matter how majestic the competitor,
Time is always the victor.