Earl Grey

Crunch of stone and vibration of heart. There is no one here to say goodbye. Long lingering looks reserved for the half empty countryside, all dead now. Suckle of flesh, memory of heat, of being held, all dead now. The beauty of beckoning, the breaking of heart. No warm embrace. Farewell my everything, my everyone. Force of step, teetering of waves-rocky and hurtling. I see it. I feel ill. Is it too soon to feel so ill? Or, is it too late? My deft steps quicken. Girls, I spy, many of them, so many. I am somehow apace with them, pallor and listlessness both. They glance, pitiful and sad.