"Western wind, when will thou blow?" A man, standing in the open. Time stands still. The background, the scenery, the world melts away. There is nothing left. Breathe in, breathe out. All he can hear is his breathe; slow and gentle. He slowly blinks. He keeps his eyes closed. Everything is black and white. There is no noise, no life, no existence. Slowly, a slight sensation descends upon him, pulling him out of nothing. A gentle touch tickles his neck, tousles his hair. It grasps his attention, his being. Slowly, he opens his eyes. His temperature rises. This magical warm breeze draws near, encompasses his body; his soul. It is the breath of an angel. It consumes his essence. He is momentarily brought back to his love, his life. The scenery returns. His life returns. Everything is how it should be. Everything is right, just for a moment. He feels invincible, he can do anything. Perfection. And then, as quickly as it came, the feeling is gone. The scenery slowly drops away, color is no longer present. The sparkle is no longer alive. His bleak reality sets in. She is gone.
"The small rain down can rain." A small, gentle washing; cleansing of the soul. Warm, spring showers. It comes. This tender gift from above brought down to replinish earth, bring life. The grass grows, flowers bloom, spring is born. Others rejoice, life is beautiful. But it does not work. Life does not come. It does not transform him. His world is not a reality. His love is not alive. He is not alive. The small rain can purify the land, wash away all of life's impurities. But he is still there. He is alone, with his only company being empty walls and a hollow heart.
"Christ, that my love were in my arms," A man, on his knees, pleading with the world. Pleading for all that he has lost. Please, from heaven above, I need the wind. I need her. I need my love, my life, my everything. I need her, in my arms. Forever. He looks towards the sky, towards the West. Please, I beg of you. In his desperate state of mind, nothing else matters. Everything else melts away. The only thing left is him and his prayers. Prayers for forgiveness. Prayers to have her back in his arms, his world.
"And in my bed again." Together. The centerpoint, the axis, the core of his existence. The median of his desires. Memories. Memories of the past, present, and future. The focal point of his needs, his yearnings, his cravings. It eats away at his heart, his soul. The bed; the peak of their love. The hub of their life together, unified as one. Please, bring her back. Even if just for a moment. A moment with her is better than a lifetime of regret, of emptiness, of nothing. Western wind, when will thou blow?
