Jasmine sits outside my front door now,
and I smell it as I look at the space between stars;
I trace patterns in the black, shinning oil of the night sky,
slowly choking on starlight and static.
The sound of crashing waves has faded,
along with the scent of her on my skin;
even her voice seems so distant,
spoken words easily lost in the echo.
Maybe it was all a dream,
or I simply saw only what I wanted to see;
a modern day desert mirage come to life
only to be lost in the limited bandwidth.
The world keeps spinning,
and the seasons continue to change;
she holds on tightly to the past,
refusing to let it die, letting it instead kill.
This is no confessional,
there is no god present to audit our sins;
only we know the paths that have been walked,
and the promises that were spoken.
The clock ticks,
calendar pages fall to the floor;
inaction is the choice of a victim,
where she once had the strength of a survivor.
Should origami birds be set free to take to the air,
so that they can return to their mistress?