"Lovers, forget your love,
And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
And he a winter breeze."

You dream of her at night, if only to trace her contours and dips with what has remained with you in the dark. The shadow of her lulls you to a dull lethargy, and you feel as if – she was almost – she was almost yours once. But time is cruel and pitiless, and it lingers for no living beggars, and you must move on. To live a life where all you have is her picture in the dark, the negative print screen sans the relief. That is all that you have been given. And you'll hold on to it reverently, whispering to her memory in the dimming light, under the waning light of fading mythological constellations and beautiful red giants. You almost had her once.

"When the frosty window veil
Was melted down at noon,
And the caged yellow bird
Hung over her in tune."

Her voice still ignites the fading embers that you have left. They catch and burn a heated path down your spine while you watch her make the biggest mistake of her life. It hurts more when she sees you, but she doesn't, not really. And you gaze at her from afar, letting yourself take small joy in the way that the sun kisses her skin, lights her eyes, carries her song. And you pretend, that maybe…this time. It's for you.

"He marked her through the pane,
He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by
To come again at dark."

You let her hold you and collapse all of the defensives that you've striven to uphold. It's freeing, how she lets you breathe for once, despite your shared vicissitude of years and months long passed. Her touch warms you, and you can feel the stars and the heavens when she sees you. And so you smile, and you hope that with time, this wont hurt quite nearly as bad. She asks the world of your heart, and you give it willingly. You watch her take it for granted in her pursuit for someone else. And when you see her standing before you, a vision in preliminary ivory, you smile and you nod, and you don't let her see your heart shattering into a pool of lover's dregs on the carpeted floor.

"He was a winter wind,
Concerned with ice and snow,
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
And little of love could know."

Her happiness is your cross to bear, and you plaster that faith to your breast with a reverence perchance you've never before known. She cradles your fears and your insecurities, swaddled to her forgiving heart just for you. And you owe her this – you owe her the world, if only she could see that she is yours. From darkness and shadow you've risen to watch her from behind borrowed glass, and perhaps you are not relegated the chance to be forgiven of past sins. Perhaps your love is the hell that you've been dealt. But love is not hell, and though your being aches for her – you know, that she is worthy of your pain. And so you cry in the darkness when she can't see; and as you make your way to bear witness to her most grandiose mistake. You know that you are doing all of the right in the world. You know…that she is loved.

"But he sighed upon the sill,
He gave the sash a shake,
As witness all within
Who lay that night awake."

You never make it. And you can see her when she falls. You watch her closely with a hollow heart, and all of the etchings of your love float away on a breeze that smells of daisies and dandelions. You watch it swirl around her curls and melt into her skin, and your love escapes from her eyelashes to funnel a trail of tears in its wake. And you see with clouded eyes, your love drip onto the floor beneath her and you know – that she is yours – and as you reach out a hand to capture heaven once and for all, her fading ivory dress bleeds through your fingertips. And perhaps it is too late. Perhaps you never had her at all.

"Perchance he half prevailed
To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
And warm stove-window light."

And so you sit with her through the hours of the endless days and nights. And you hold her hand, rubbing fingers over skin that mocks you in its impossible touch. You catch your love from her dripping lashes and rosy cheeks when she sighs, and you whisper into her ear that you will give her the world. You think she almost hears you, sitting atop borrowed chairs in pristine white rooms. And you like to dream that the song she hums from her sun-kissed lips makes her heart beat just as roughly as it does yours. And in so many days you realize as you sit beside her unseen…that you can feel it. Your heart – it's beating.

"But the flower leaned aside
And thought of naught to say,
And morning found the breeze
A hundred miles away."

And for the second time you count her curves and her shadows. You traipse your eyes over all of the memories of her that you have saved. And when she smiles at you from the darkness of your mind you can see light behind those lips. And you feel warmth cascade over your fingertips, and it hurts how much you wish that you could see again. And the darkness has grown too threatening for once, and you can no longer bear its sadness and its depth. You follow her light, emerging from the submergence. And as your eyes flutter to a fluorescence that you are never expecting – you – you hear her. Everywhere and in everything, and you smell the daisies as if they were picked just for you, wafted daintily through the lightened air. And when chocolate eyes flood into your field of vision, and the world stops it's blur she's there. Smiling at you, and it must be a dream. But when you see the water beneath her eyes pool and cascade down the river between you, you watch a drop lazily as it falls to sizzle on the skin of your cheek. And you know then. You feel it, as though heaven has surfaced here on earth. The love you gave on a wayward breeze, it infuses itself back into your soul. And you breathe, a deep lungful of air from a heart that isn't quite so broken.

I'm here. Rachel…I'm here.


Wind and Window Flower - Robert Frost

A/N: I was reading poetry and got kind of lost in the middle of it all. This is what became of that...i hope it's not as lame as it seems, I will never be a poet. But...a change of style here to say the least. Tell me what you think?

P.S. Robert Frost will always be one of my favorite poets. Check out his works if you haven't yet been so inclined.