Pygmalia

Into the void I turn, waiting for sunrise to spill over into tomorrow's silent fragile storm, sinking into dahlias strung with beads of frozen fever. Forever and a long sad Tuesday ago we sat and dreamed in tandem, thought up journeys trimmed with mazes of deceit and desire, controlled by my pencil you saw more than the dream, looked beyond possibility and attempted impossible magic with a hairpin to my throat. I slowly gazed into your heartstopping mind, and seeped clay through anxious fingertips, fashioning my own Galateon from paper and neurons firing empty. Working supple bone, spinning you on your side I made you for my own, and you grew each passing stroke, thanks to my quill of iron. Creature dusky fair follows me on wings of time, still waiting patiently for reality to hold its breath and release you into the world of blood and music, kept behind glass until I release the illusion, and make you solid with a single scratch of pen.