You Make Me Spill My Ink

28th February, 2016

Winters.....long periods of deep silence....
The soft snowflakes fall soundlessly, drifting in the air, painting the landscape in the colours of the moon.
Nature is quiet too, waiting patiently for the sun to get back to its warm mode.
I don't hear the scurrying of the squirrels or the squabbling of the birds. They are all like children, being eerily silent after a bout of mischief, trying not to get caught.
Life is on pause. There's nothing much to do except letting my dreams go a wandering on the pristine winter blankets. They scamper about without a murmur, their trackless feet romping in the snow like a ghost, invisible, yet sending shivers of anticipation up my spine.
My senses prickle. My eyes drowsy but mind wide awake, I listen for the warmth of your comforting breath, your only tracks of passage on my heart.
If I inhale deeply, I can always smell the fragrance of your presence permeating my soul. I can always feel you writing your words with my pen. I can always feel you carry away my loneliness and leave behind your molten heat coursing through my veins.
There has been no sound. Not even a whisper. But the world has changed. Yet again.
Smiles ripple across the sky as my ink bleeds my insides on the virgin snow.

©Manic Sylph 2016