We speak in the whispers of the wind,

beckoning our secrets, lighting desires,

In clandestine revelry, we glow.

A sure beginning might well have a planned end,

in this perennial autumn, our love rose and fell.

Even shattered pieces glittered and reflected

of a time long past, of a love long lost.

Not one  moment was lost in finishing,

that which took years to build.

Mountains of sand dissipated by

streams of time carrying sorrow.

Even so, on a cold lonely autumn day,

'Tis not now, but then that I crave for.

Sweet words parry through memories,

howling across perceived pain.

I sift and search for your face

achingly happy, level-headed pace.

Even on a peak, or down in a valley,

'Tis your shoulder my head wishes to grace.