Our Soft Passing

We are shadows only, leaving no real mark of our soft passing, leaving only hollow echoes fading slowly between then and now. There is silence and only whispers haunting the memories of those who see traces of our lives touching their moments. We are hollow and easily forgotten, left to blow on the wind like delicate curtains caught in the breeze from the open widow that looks out across the endless dark of the night. Only the stars are out, vast distances between each one and the hands that hold onto the window frame as though afraid of falling out into that endless void.

She has the eyes of one who sees too much out there, and so she closes them and turns to lean her head against my waiting shoulder, knowing I will lead her back to the bed and hold her until the dawn edges through those curtains once again. Then, as the warm light begins to fill the spaces around us, we will fade from the memory of this room as though we are ghosts too.

Then we will dress, looking away from each other as though neither of us truly believes the other is anything more than a memory or a dream, and then we will walk out of this building to each go back to our own separate lives.