In the morning’s dark,

when the clock tells her she can loll,

she turns to hold Him.

The empty pillow welcomes her,

and she closes her eyes,

leaning her head on the chest

of her imaginary Him.

Her fingers warmed by gloves,

not His gentle clasp,

she walks through autumn’s welcome chill,

 the playful breeze,

dancing brown and gold leaves at her feet,


He drives his car through the city traffic,

stops at the cross walk,

watching the pretty girl with the beret,

her hair tossed,

her long dark coat flapping at her boots,

and wonders if she might be the one.

The one to gasp,

to cry

to squeal,

to kneel.

To love and be loved.

The girl nods her thanks and moves quickly away,

Were they to meet,

The she with the pillow,

the He with the car,

they would discover their wants and needs,

sublimely similar, though antonymous,

like-minded souls who crave dark pleasures.

Do they forever live apart,

feeling that somewhere, the other must exist?

Is it fate who decides,

or simply happenstance?

Once home he ponders,

Zander 3

the she for whom he waits,

endlessly haunting him…