Is it fading?

The soft incandescence that softly hums atop

your ever swaying branches.

Or is it already gone?

A memory that can’t be deciphered as real

or imagined.

I don’t know if it’s me or you that’s pulled the glint away.

Is it the way I’m standing?

Did you look away?

Maybe if I stand where I stood before,

I can see you brighter once more.

I don’t remember where I stood.

Do I wait for the light to come back?

Or do I move?

Do I wait for it to come back?

Or do I move?

Do I move?

Do I move?

Do I move?

A soft hand on my heart always tells me it’s ok. Even when it’s not, on the surface of my soul. It boils up there. But, deep down below, at the very center of my being, it’s wider than the universe. And the universe is infinite. How can there never be a hand telling me it’s ok in the infinite? There always is.

There always is.

I’ll move one day.