It doesn’t feel like writing upon the wind. Silent, invisible, unknown to all but one. It doesn’t feel as if it were moonlight upon water, and a ripple to mar what mirrors the heavens.
Still nothing holds form for as long as the sun. No wall, no battlement, not even the char of sieges long since past. Not even the castle, and the court it once called.
There are the tiny smiles in which bloom then wither. In the time they do, fleeting as they are, some I’ll admit go to you.
Something in regard forever, in warm heart and the crack of happiness across a stony face. Something in dreams these days, and I’ll always thank you for the good times that we did have.
Perhaps next life, or the one thereafter.