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Gazebo
To the one who always gets away.
A gazebo appears as a furtive image adrift in the morning mist, a visual summons writhing within my senses. It’s a dream catcher, a bulwark of memory and aspiration where I’m bound to the romantic errands of unrequited desire.
Yet, it’s comfortable there. I rest on the seasoned wicker, hoarding a collection of heavy-hearted, lightheaded thoughts that amount to vapor, wafting among the season’s scents but always biding the hint of winter.
Amidst this haze, a tender breeze procures a cadence in my mind, the willows sway and conduct a serenade, ere thoughts of you, and I’m in eternal tune. I suffer for the taste of your hesitant lips. I ask to touch surrendered tresses; please, whisper yes, let me feel the safe, secret promises composed of your smooth, bared shoulders.
Trees rustle; you escape upon an air of doubt that rebukes my wavery hands.
Such is this image locked within the confines of a gazebo.
From: My Daily Brainstorms
Joejohn Black
