Last Touch

Drifting slow in autumn’s air,

a golden touch that makes vision so blind.

Like fingers lost, then intertwined,

as whispers dance and float somewhere.

The wind still lingers in its flight,

a dance, a pull, a fleeting thread.

Two palms once met, but love has fled,

as autumn fades into the night.

It twirls between the earth and sky,

uncertain if to rise or land.

The breeze holds tight, then slips like sand,

a fleeting grasp, a last goodbye.