Fragrance of the stranger

Her fragrance was fresh like bergamot and eucalyptus,

Of delicate Cypress and sultry Jasmine.

I closed my eyes to sense it, 

Feeling shivers rush down my spine.

There at the watercooler, her fragrance floated

This unseen stranger who was there before my time.

Your time seems to be faster than mine

As the night surrendered,

To the morning chimes.

They lay lazily in bed together

Watching the waves light up with sunshine

As she got up to dress for office

He whispered "Your time seems to be faster than mine".

If truth be told

All masks aside,
And if truth be told,

It's someone to smile at,
And somebody to hold.

Someone to dream with,
And somebody with whom to grow old.

Your reflection

I like how you reflect against my glass of wine.

Stick around and I might be intoxicated in time.

Girl of many shades

She wore a jacket red, under the rainy sky.
An affectionate look of wine, drunk deep inside her eyes.

Defiant of the traffic lights, she strode onto the street.
Her blue jacket striking against her jet black hair, as it bounced merrily.

Lipstick marks on coffee cups, eyes casting lingering glances.
Petulant lips betraying slender fingers. She wasn't ready to grow up.

Music fills the spaces

And then Music fills the spaces where life feels inadequate.

Conversations

If you can hear the rain dance merrily on the tin roof,
and sleep in peace smiling that life is alive, talk to me.

If you have played with sunshine.
Not afraid to stain your clothes with the dust of spiritedness, talk to me.

If you have danced to invisible music inside your head.
If you have waltzed with a baby teaching a language of love, talk to me.

Be reckless

Feel the sun upon your face, sing songs out loud in a maddened craze.
Be reckless. Be free.

Throw your hat into the air. Fly after it as if gravity isn't there.
Be reckless. Be free.

The wolf writer

Sometimes you write so people can hear your feeling,

And the reaching out of someone assuages your pain.

Sometimes you are like the Lonely wolf in the wild,

Writing is like howling in the emptiness in vain.