Misty Morning.

Vanished Leslie Ann Butler.

I call out, an echo in the mist,
My toes curled, trails of coarse sand behind me.
She slumbers in the cold morning,
Curls of wispy gold flowing gently through the darkness.

Cold chest, cold breath,
Her eyes unreachable,
Unseen in the depths below;

Misty life exhaled,
Her fleeced fingers wound tightly through mine.
I can feel her heartbeat,
She is the ocean,
She is the morning;

Her heart and mine,
Soft spoken words,
On opposite shores.

Can you hear her?
She speaks through soft spilled waves,
Forgotten shells and hidden warmth.

She calls to me,
And I feel her presence;

We are strangers,
Along a quiet shore;
But we share our lives,
And we laugh,
Prescient in the now.

We forget in that moment,
That we are strangers,
Walking alongside each other;
Echoes of a past,
On a cold misty morning.

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