Nightly Encounter
won’t you give him a hand, little rose?
his ebony hair sways to the rhythm of the wind, to the gentle caress of lonely echoes
your blood runs cold. must be the subzero temperature, you wager
fingers crossed he does you no harm
your petals frozen over from the chill of the haunt
his hand reaches forth, his gaze unyielding
take his hand, won’t you, little rose?
quaint little cafe with brick walls and vines
where coffee taste bland and the pain au chocolat stale to your tongue
the pillows are torn and the tables misshapen
much like you are at this ungodly hour
yet here he listens with rapt attention
bringing his hands close to your shoulder as you unravel under his gaze
truly absurd, for your skin prickles with the winter chill
mighty breeze, it seems tonight
or perhaps it’s simply that the shadows beneath your feet run colder
he’s watching. of course he’s watching.
or maybe he isn’t. it’s naught but ravens out there.
you never did see him anymore.
not down the street, not on the bus stop, not even in that hole in the wall cafe
yet it’s his eyes that seem to hover all around you.
the stark yellow never truly left your mind, as it were. much like the raven perched on your windowsill.
eyes that betray nothing, or seem to hold nothing, regardless of the paltry smiles he donned that very moment.
why must you think of him, really? surely you’re just manifesting his presence at this rate.
or perhaps you simply want to see him?
no matter, it’s not as though he will.
for he’s not watching you, is he now?