On The Day

Flat shades of skin
could go no paler,
as being stroked
by melancholy
its tenuous branches
reaching into heart,
eyelids flicker
no droplet yet,
the day had borne
some heaviness,
from the greyness
of dawn
and strands of mist
that came before
the sun,
to touch your hand
would be so wrong,
invasive as a tight
strangling weed
entwining its way
about solid roots,
to leave would be
correct
and let thought
consume,
so I go so far
then have to wait