The Cocoon

He sat, surrounded by the sadness of the weeping willow tree, its branches touched his hair and stroked his cheeks, due to the breeze. She'd grown so much, all in the span of just one lousy year, and on the day the locks got changed he left and cried inside the crowded tram, he took it to the final stop, as curious eyes accompanied unsteady legs, down to the ageless creek. He'd sat here many times though not alone, they'd cuddled on the rough hewn bench and watched the bats nearby, their silhouettes like silent witches painted on the moon. The memories brought goosebumps and fresh tears, he'd missed his final chance, had laughed at hints from deity as well as from his own, subconsciously he had been warned, oh yes, but like a careless child, invincible and loved, he'd promised to his inner voice that someday soon he'd surely be the man she'd seen in him back then, the one he'd meant to be, and, come to think of it, he'd earnestly believed to be. Oh dammit, man, it really was too late, he'd always loved her eyes and read them well, there was a depth he liked to find in crazy dreams of nakedness and tangled nights, they had regarded him without the threat of glacial ice but he had seen that all the flames had perished now and that the music in her soul had simply died. Will you, dear God, give me the light of your own moon, and send an angel to me bearing a cocoon, I shall be happy to just slip inside and cry and wait with patience for your hand to let me die.