It keeps coming back, circling round.
Perhaps like eyelids falling shut, as evening's lap holds the sound of dew, becoming a thin crescent moon in the heart's dark hollow, carrying the scent of night jasmine on the sighing wind, inside the lungs, outside...it returns. Surpassing all decay with the sweet fragrance of new buds, it comes back again and again.
Like waves crashing against the shore, like a young girl's unruly long hair flying in the wind, like a newlywed bride waiting for her husband's return, it comes back.
It returns, carrying the solitude wrapped in cosmic emptiness, like the hope of finding first love once lost, like the anguish of having and losing.
With the sharp, sweet pain of dreams dead a thousand years, again and again, it keeps coming back!
As much as I turn it away, does it turn me away just as much?