Counting Stars

Silent eyes look up pensively,
At the black clouds,
Scathing the black velvet of the night.
Faint starshine glimmers paths bright-
While yellow beams of the many bulbs,
Reflect back at the rain pools on the road.
The cool breeze whispers by,
Like a soothsayer,
Strangely soothing spirits sane.
White fingers hug the mug tighter,
Sipping more urgently at the hot black liquid-
Letting it slash in through to her gut-
Warming her from within.
Squaring shoulders,
The faintly moist eyes,
Stare harder at the empty stones,
Looking for shadows.
The clock in the distance,
Strikes a 3 at dawn-
The blackness gains a blue ring-
As crows begin spreading their wings.
A half smile at the food untouched-
Like so many nights now,
Purple soled feet rise from the stairs,
And make way in through the door unlocked.
Alarm set for 6,
Head rests against the pillow-
Yet wild thoughts run amok.
A queer serenity bestows its light sheen on the form,
As the many ponderings, start counting stars.
The sated mind states the small moments of joy-
Captured and cherished-
As the real plays the reel-
At an unhurried pace when time freezes in its own gravity.
With closed eyes now,
And a lingering smile,
Cocooned in gratitude,
Of some precious time spent-
With the one so loved.
The soul feels lighter,
And expects nothing more-
Refuses to look forward to the bleakness ahead-
That must await as an eventuality.
But prefers to live by love,
Through the moments earned now.
Absence creates a void deeply felt
And an emptiness that becomes a physical handicap.
But when logic prevails,
It tells, that it must be so-
Like this- later-
And that one must get used to its sting,
And not think.
A conscience acts as a fulcrum now,
With a selective bias,
Gleaning the happiness to be used as cud-
When ruminated on later in the deep.
But sorrow or its greyness feel distant-
As the fulcrum chooses to believe
That life must go on
Sans expectations worth shattering.
Happiness bubbles in the spirit now,
As its glow radiated from every pore-
Surety of the 'now' beseeches the core-
And that's mayhaps all that's required anyway-
When sustenance is not what the inner being seeks.
For the choice was never in the hands of the fulcrum's.
It all lay elsewhere-
In another's hand-
To be vested or wasted at will.
But ironically,
The shards of all such broken thoughts,
Pierces none.
As in actuality,
The mind seems quite made up-
To travel a year later-
And not pay heed to much
What catches the ear,
Or the eyes see anymore.
For belief is sanctimonious-
And faith's handle parsimonious.
The sanctity of age too,
Isn't vintage-
Logic must address foolhardiness-
As the steps must drift into oblivion.
To be returned not-
But remembered with pride and a smile-
With love of a beloved.