Missing those times, when there were just strangers.
Discovering those eyes of his,
and how they conquer the world,
and are wounds ripped into this face,
giving a clear view into shadows.
Missing those times, when coffee and cake made up another witching dream.
When skin on skin was thought
and a beating heart
gave away a violet sparkle.
Missing being curious.
Dreaming of all the colors in the universe.
Not knowing which one to vibrate as next.
Wondering about how they would resonate in those eyes of his.
Missing not having said things but burning up to do so.
Now, all that is left is a memory of roses being painted in raindrops.
And this witch is dreaming of kissing strangers,
but they are not strangers anymore.
They are shadows.
Mistress witch writes 