Yiruma

November 20, 2009
Beauty, midnight, vision dies:
Black streaked skies.
Patterned rooftops gleam with the dawn licked dew.
Leaning outside my window the smell of you-
skips past me with fleeting, sporadic frequency.
Tumbled leaves scurry across the street, making soft scratching
noises with their feet.
The moon, close and bright blurs as rain begins to pelt the ground.
My quivering hands grip the windowsill as I lengthen my torso outside,
feeling the crisp, comforting air rush over me, ecstatically consumed for a second.
I lift my legs up, grappling at the edge one moment, but the next I am sitting on the sill, and with
hands gripping the wood, I push off and land neatly in the settled, softened grass.
Rocking to my feet I stand and observe my window from the ground,
The chandelier still hangs, glassy with gold, many feet above me.

First line: W.H. Auden





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