"...7, 8, 9, 10, Here I come, ready or not!" And yet I hesitate to uncover my eyes, to remove my fingers from my face. In the soft warm darkness of counting I can see you standing before me smiling, your hands quietly folded behind you, you swaying a little - delightfully whispering, "Here I am, come get me."
If I open my eyes now and you are gone I will be alone. The bright day will glare off the trees and grasses. In the golden empty air there will be no coolness of you standing before me if I remove my soulful thinking fingers from my alone face.
I like having you near me, in my head, munching on memories of togetherness. My hands are bound to my face by silver threads of remembering - of having. The golden empty air must not pierce these dark irises of once having seen.
Holding shadows of your nearness I am afraid to become quite alone again.
