A feather falling, softly whisping,
Skimming past your hair and ears,
Drifting downwards till it nears
Your neck, so slightly tense, yet warm.
Your mouth, smiling, yet clearly torn.
The feather falls to water, glistening,
Swims away past rocks and dirt,
Your eyes watch it, until, quite curt,
It floats once more upon the breeze.
Whisked away above the trees.
Nearby are two wings, undulating,
Flapping with a discrete sound
Until a bird, with one huge bound
Leaves its thin branch, flapping also.
This visual dance is flowing, slow,
But it is all clearly pulsating.
Sweetly ebbing and alive,
A sight to be romanticised.
And yet, my hands reach to your face,
Cover your eyes, remove this place.
Your current sight is just frustrating,
The pinky blackness of my hand
A wall between you and the land.
A cruel gift and a cruel reminder:
Your sight is a beautiful thing
Youll never get to see.