There beneath the flyway memories lay like a breath on the water in autumn air, shimmering into the fade.
Do you find that certain people have the ability to write something that not only captures your heart, but places a map inside your mind too. A map that if cast aside feels like a betrayal to the trust in which it was given.
If you could fill sails with their words all inlets would flow to oceans, faultlessly unhindered like the pages that drew lines towards the headlands.
Does the fallen petal mean the death of a flower or is it just a page finished and freed. That its colour fades is life at speed, a window of opportunity grasped like a pen in the dreamers hand.
Writer, architect, conjurer. I walk within your moods, I see through different windows, but I am drawn by your hand.