The Act of Nothing.

Standing on the door step.
                 I wait.
Hand raised, fingers clenched within fist.
My head drums with the constant thought.
To knock on the door.
Simplicity always turns in to complicated.
Turn and run or stay and wait.
Flight or fight.
His face corrupts my mind.
I think of the way his hand brushed against my face.
So many years ago.

There I was, here I am, teetering on the edge of concrete.
No golden path, no happy ending just the      nagging of something more.
Yet taken away in acts of genetic faces.                   Trashes the houses, burns the streets.
Until the family is forced to leave,                   barren, rich, beautiful, colourful country awaits.
Leaving me far behind.

Words say that he will come back.
              Come back for me.
Laughter of that impossibility gives a little hope.
Why would he come back for me?
The person who finds it difficult to knock on colour blue.

Imagination pictures the wood opening, enfolding skin, lips.
                                            Scared I run.
I leave.

A gift on the step.
A token of not only cowardess,
but of love.

I sprint, wind whistling through my fingers, catching flight.
I soar above anyone and everything.
Until dispersing amongst

                                                                             nothing.

A.M.Dale.