by Anna Breslin

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.

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