Untitled Poem by Eron Deka

The wind blew her hair onto me
with a taste of dried autumn leaves
and a certain crunch of the trodden,
while revealing to me a mark that seemed
far too familiar on her neck.

A glass window with open views
of upright hills and cloudy skies
but on that window there had been
three blemishes in white.
I think to lay my hand upon
the mark as i had done before.

But now the hourglass had filled
and sand sunk still
And It was no longer for me to hold.

our disappointment sits between us.