Baby blue sky, clear with wisps of feathery clouds
The temperature has dropped like a stone;
As the ribcage bends to accommodate the chill in the air
It runs up the spine reminiscent of the touch
Cold hands – a lovers deception
It’s not just the weather
It’s a state of mind
When the heart is shared and vulnerabilities exposed
A safe space thoughtfully held – yet betrayed
Nothing in the wind’s sense of purity and trust
Can rationalize the intentional tare or deception
That was weaved throughout the fragile fabric of love
Without care between love notes, flowers and commitments
Gestures of a fools game
And what remains?
Nothing, but the empty echo of words and song

©2021 TrilbyYates