Wind, intoxicated with power,
plays with my clothes and runs
her fingers through my hair
with the passion of a lover.
She blows away my thoughts,
glides across my eyes,
and coaxes tears.
I cry without nostalgia for
our unmade bed at dawn
and your musical laughter.
These drops fall without
pain or longing,
born of the wind,
they pass through me,
I am the sky, they are
clouds above a lake,
waves of colors at sunset.
Each burst of wind,
born without memory,
unconscious of the future,
travels across my body.
I open my arms wide, throw
back my head
and feel the wind
make love to me.
© 2018, A. Breslin All Rights Reserved
Image credit:Boreas, John William Waterhouse.
