George's Writing
To Touch
Bubbles float and drift around me. They’re like memories pure as diamonds and as light as feathers.
I reach out to touch their transparent shapes but they burst into a million droplets that fall to the earth with the slightest brush.
The wind begins to rise and the bubbles swim away in the currants of air. My soul cries to fly with them but I'm only left to stand on the ground and to let my mind wonder.
Oh to fly, to drift on the breeze, to float in nothingness. The image is sweet, so clean that the brakes me into so many pieces.
I sit in the grass and watch the world fly past, the clouds roll and turn and the sky opens up.
I lift my hands to touch the blue, the blue of the never-ending sky. But it always seems so out of reach, just a breathe away from my finger tips.
The sky grows dark and the stars appear. The prefect pearls that adorn midnight’s gown of black shimmer in the folds.
I hear their whispers in the darkness, the soft tinkle, as life is whisks away. Never noticing, never stopping, never knowing, never touching.
"To touch..." is what I hear the voice whisper, in the darkness.
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