The wind is a liar, an elusive suitor who will murmur sweet nothings as he passes by but remains safely intangible for you to ever manage to grasp. He may have you all he wants, but you can never have him. Not really.
All you’ll ever have are the murmurs. A small gust of discontent blowing in the back of your consciousness, left there by some too-strong beat of your heart or flutter of your mind. You let him in. That was the only way to trap him. To catch that one breath, leave it blowing about somewhere in your memory.
It’s the only way to hold onto him.
The sweet caress of a moment’s breeze will say that he loves you. But the wind can never really hold you. The suggestion of an embrace is nothing but a cruel trickery of the senses.
Because should you ever turn to embrace your lover back, you will find there were never any arms about you in the first place.
You will swear they were there.
But that was never true, dear one.
Perhaps you will be one of the few that insist.
And then, oh pretty lover, the wind will have made a liar out of you, too.
Quill Aquiver 