Excitement stirs like a busy hive,
My mind swoons as the minutes pass by,
A climactic raise in serotonin, as we lock eyes.
Heartbeats flutter as we exchange hi’s.
My stomach feels as if it filled with a field of newly transformed butterflies.
All the hope I have left in this life hopes... that this moment, never goes bye.
With eyes as dark as licorice
pierce through me, I don't exist.
Springy brown curls, I call them cinnamon,
wrap me up and strangle me within.
Razor-sharp wit, sarcasm,
trapped inside a crystal chasm.
Candy-coated, sweet outer shell, hiding demons, fire... and hell.
The outside is always different from what is held within.
Nostalgia in spring time brings much gloom, but not as much as this pressure in my chest and the sense of impending doom. A walk around an empty house, without your energy to fill a single room. A melancholy veil, one I wish lifts soon.
As the breeze serenades all the people the lovers swoon, the warm air caresses my skin, the scent of spring life in the wind, as the air carries the sounds of a happy tune, on a beautiful weekend afternoon.
My memory is flooded with sounds of you, the feel of you, the scent of you, the hope of you returning soon, so that the presence of you can once again fill my room.
Inside of my space, another dimension.
Time is nothing but an invention.
A way to make the day, tick away.
A way to justify all the words I say. Relative to me as well as to you.
Relative to the feel of what life has shown me to do. There’s an unnerving, sinking feeling.
That it’s passing, slipping, seeking and stealing.
A void in which should be filled with creative, imaginative grey matter.
Has fallen dark with thoughts and only they matter.
Thoughts of how relative time may be, but I can’t help but to feel that it’s constantly escaping me.
In a world full of colors, I notice the selfish grays.
Stealing vibrancy from all the other colors.
Their spectral rays.
grey takes over and has a monotone for every shade.
Every other color fights back with their array of shades.
But no one color can out do grey.
Not black nor white has power, as the gray has a place at the end of every tone.
No true individual vibrant color can own its own.
Grey steals and owns but still is all alone.
I write so that my words will stay.
Even as the memory of me passes away.
In the event I’m no longer physical, my sprit will remain.
So that my professed love for you doesn’t die in vein.
So, in no way can there be a false claim. my undying love for you will always remain.
At the end of my days I just fade away, after putting on my face, and staring in my personal play.
I just fade away.
The sky fades with me, to bluish gray and I look to it and say, this again has been a hell of a day.
I long for the day when the fading just stays and I no longer contemplate another played through day.