He’s still alive,
his palms pressed against the glass walls –
the thin sheet of distance between
Black eyes gently fixated on
the gaps between her fingers,
the way she rests her hand gently
on the stained tabletop –
the way she taps the plastic lightly.
She’s a lingering attachment in
his heart – a burden;
sentiments she didn’t know of,
something other’s would call idiocy,
inanity that he’d call bliss.
Three more steps –
if he inched closer and filled the
petty centimetres he’d be closer.
Yet with attempts to cover the distance her silhouette it grew increasingly sketchy,
the scents of fresh daffodils lingering,
but never quite getting closer.
(once again, the doing of euphxria family.)