Like static…
Or an old record…
Where everything lacks color,
And no other sound,
other than the slight skipping of a record player.
It’s like an old movie,
Where there is no real plot.
Or an odd dream,
Where you recognize the women’s presence,
But have no memories of her or who she is to you.
If only you could see her whole face…
She smiles…
So sweetly in your direction,
before turning to face the window.
The rain… it falls down the glass,
as nothing is visible out beyond the lake.
She seems so calm,
So relaxed to be in the same room as you.
As if you shared more than one life time together,
Filled with secrets only you two know,
And stories that only you two share.
She sits there…
the water droplets reflecting on her porcelain skin.
She slowly… ever so slowly, as if it was in slow motion,
Mouths words softly…
But they are not heard.
Not in this dream,
where there is nothing more than the slight skipping of a record,
or the sound of light static.
She smiles softly again, this time to herself,
As if she were remembering something that was fond to her…
And her lips move again,
Parting as she softly speaks some more…
Still looking at the rain fall.
Her expression changes…
She seems so far away,
Even though she is close enough to touch.
And she moves her lips again,
And then she looks at you…
A look of complete knowing.
She seems so sure, so comfortable…
She waits for you to respond,
And you reach for her face,
To move her hair behind her ear,
You feel so close of her…
If only you could see her face…
Then maybe…
You’ll remember her…
But then the movie begins to run out of film,
Each picture slowly sliding past,
As the sound of static comes in again,
Consuming…
Over taking the once colorless dream.
Taking the women with it…
The women that lives only in the static dream.

 
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