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the truth is that you are more like a quasar than a lover
you are distant and golden
i ask myself if you will burn me -
disintegrate my being -
if i draw too near you

they say that there are silver linings in clouds
but you are more valuable than any metal
you are more precious than if light had value
and my living was made in ultraviolet

some days you are icy and i wonder if stars can burn in reverse
i'm frozen, but i can't tell if it is hesitation or your wintry eyes
if i never see you again, let it be known
you are more like a quasar than a lover
gee, I wonder who THIS poem's about!~
i've waded through saline rivers
because i burned the bridges for you

and now i stand soaked in your words
drowning in the grief that you gave me

out of sight, out of mind?
more or less.
i still see you in my mind's eye
will i ever get you out?
"He has become the one the songs are about" - David Levithan
 Jan 2015 River Scott
Curing
Oh, what a gift,
...Stopping time's flow.
Just to hold you forever,
...Without letting go.

...Racing and burning,
...Forever returning,
...I loved you each day sure as the Sun loves to fly.
...Rising to Day.
...Falling to Night.
...Forever returning,
...Till the day I should die.

Yes, a gift and a curse,
...Our lives but a verse,
...We dance through the stars, as around us they burst.

A bleeding heart,
A world apart,
By sunsets final glow.

Loves tender fruit,
Pure to the root,
Deep in my heart you sow.

Through misty mornings clouding sight,
Through frozen winter rain.
I know tis true...
it beats for you...
my heart and all its pain.
Einstein's Relativity tells us that time slows at fast speeds,
So much so that it stops when travelling at the speed of light.
As you look up at the stars tonight think of this:
The photons that travel across the universe to your retina,
Are created in the depths of a star and destroyed within your eye,
In the same instance.
 Dec 2014 River Scott
Haydn Swan
If I held out my hand
would you take it ?
it's warmth ready to permeate your soul
but what would it tell you of me ?
the scar on my finger
the wrinkling skin
the crooked pinkie
the gnarl on my thumb
stories to be told
if you would only take hold.
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