The Bee has Left the Flower

What lies before me is not the promise of poetry. Hands forming words with a precision my trembling fingers never knew. I wonder at the stable hands of the one who paints with light. I marvel at the eyes of the one who never did miss the slightest flickering of mine. I sit upon my dearest cushion, cross-legged. I play with my hair as I think of her long flowing hair, as the cold wintry wind carries to me the ever so familiar voice of rustling leaves. He laughs again. He laughs without mistrust or shame pulling at his dry lips and distorting his smile.
Their voices have left. Their voices come back wearing new clothes and adornments of a proper world. Her hair brushed and tied in a neat bun. His laughter without trust. What lies before me is not the promise of poetry. Promises, like trust, have been broken. The bee has left the flower.