Untitled (or "she calls")

she calls, the knife falls flat, exhausted, a respite from it's course as her words dance within his ears, the hair of his fiber sing their praises to "HI HI" his eyes hunger for her visage but it's the voice not the embodiment. It is enough for now. His stance is restless, not lingering in one place for long, her voice is the siren's song, He wants, needs, bleeds to move south to her with no clear path, just South. She is south and her heart is his, what he agonizes over, what he burns for what was made to come. No sense but what is given him. He turn this way and that. A name and a face and a feeling. such a feeling that a lifetime in the company of the flesh could not compare than what has come to pass with one he has not met. Somehow the tides turned, the clocks stopped for a glimpse of tomorrow and the shades of old sang their songs of past, present and futures for these two. Something on the blush of the morrow's morning sun calls forth. The tides rush forth, washing away a never seen sand of regret.