Spring Light

There is the sun,

the movement of the bright spring light,

in between the shadows

How the leaves,

imprinted on my legs,

move in a fluttered fashion

As if they were dancing,

on tiptoes,

to a Tchaikovsky ballet

Just a thought later,

they are gone,

leaving no trace,

on the surface of my skin

Now reflecting nothing back to me,

but the longing quality of my own thoughts

As the heart flutters, the skin stays still,

And meeting her, my breath slows

I still long for him,

A man I barely know.

Illusion, or something real?

A fear of the unknown.