She was distinctively radiant among the other schoolyard angels. The smile- the one which glimmered against his soul silently, dancing every time their eyes connected. She- angelically pure, innocent, gentle as a dove awoke him to the possibilities of young love. The cobblestone romance (St.Patrick’s Catholic school, child grooming for the middle class) grew uncontrollably, over shadowed by parental influence, Shakespearean at times. Yet midst the confusion there was always that sweet sound of R&B penetrating the mind of two souls on a dusty road. And yes the road was dusty, blinding, worn, but there was lost beauty in the road they shared, A stolen fragment in time. (“Little boy Lost, oh little boy lost – oh William Blake not now) a young man lost in un-warranted kick’s, let her hand slip…slowly….yet surely.
The haunting of time! time which they once shared. It’s funny to think of her now with lost eyes; broken pieces of time scattered on the ground; eternal images of her reflection slowly howling. When he ponders the frozen moment it produces smiles, smiles which can never be taken away. There were days when her scent was close to his nose, light winds of nostalgic breeze tickling the notion of remembrance, her electric current blazing through his soul in hopeless bliss. The two lovers eventually found their own roads (distant) but the flame in her eyes never forgotten.
The Sunlight slowly began to fade on a brilliant day as hints of the sunlight’s glory painted its last masterpiece against the open sky and he, writing it all down out the windowsill of his eyes. Nervous anticipation of existed in his soul; it was like meeting someone for the first time, again. The slow wind gathered against his scarf making him shiver with anxiety as the familiar eyes locked, internally smiling. When she spoke it was as nothing had changed, the shyness dissipating into coffee house air, nervous giggle’s that they both shared. These two Shakespearean characters filling each other with overdue laughs. “Is it better to have loved and lost then to have never loved at all?” – who am I to ask I just write the poems.