The Heart of A Worried Man Wearing His Gray Suit

I hear you there. Its faint, and it is loose.

The warm air covers over us, but as we are, we are together here. We are standing next to each other. But you wont look at me, you wont talk to me, and all I must believe is that we are not here, here together.

I put my watch on the wooden beam. I put it in place, in center so that the winds coming from the cool ocean doesn't remove it, push it, or take away from its place like it does with time. I still look at her, into her. I want things, I want her and her things, however, no reaction reflects my expression. Am I not clear in my feels or is she not wise in receiving it? Or is it that I am not wise in anything and lost forever dreaming?

She looks past me, though not through me, as if I where an ambient object.

This object should not move her nor relate to her because the thicket is too tough or, perhaps, overwhelming that I cannot matter to her and that she doesn't want it to matter; I am without sound. As much that is expressed, and my hands griping the beam, my ignorance is what I want to believe. My eyes hurt.

A person that I am, I stand; I am waiting with her in the warmth of the sum's air. The dock creeks as the underflow of the current reaches as far as it can in-land. She feels as if she is there alone, but I am with her. The moon heats a cool blue cyclical shape burned in the night's black sky. It finds its way over our shoulders. Her dark blue eyes feel the ocean, its lonely. It doesn't comfort us, I mean, it doesn't comfort me; non the less.

The choice can only be hers. Feeding through the gossip and the "important" conversations with whom ever will cloud her mind.

I might die in your cloud. We might die. The thicket will gape us in, and the blackest of black will remain, The End.