I'm still waiting.

i'm waiting as i lose myself in the translucent clouds that billow through the skies.
the music is a gentle lullaby, words dancing off my finger tips as i think of you.
how did i end up so lucky, one in a million, a lucky roll of the dice.
i smile, i don't really know what to say anymore.

i cant believe i thought the past was my destiny.
when i couldn't see through the foggy lenses over my eyes.
i didn't understand love until i found you.
but now i would give anything to call you mine.

it has been a while and will continue to be. but one day the wait will be over.
i can't stand the thought of no longer gazing into your soft teals.
everyday i think of you and the music that sweeps me around gently.
i still can't believe all of this is real.

sometimes i have a fleeting thought about the future.
will we be eternal or will be say our goodbyes tomorrow?
will i still be able to take you out for meals
or will it cease to be real?

I'm still waiting.

blue is the colour of the cold, the creeping breath that crawls down your neck.
it is the gentle, freezing fingers that lace together around yours.
blue is the secluded forest, dark and brooding, left unchecked.

red is your rosy cheeks when you hold your lips against hers.
it is the glow of a summer fire, crackling and reaching for the sky.
red is the warmth of your bed, drowned in the scent of roses and myrrh.

yellow is the flashy smile you hide, it is the hazel eyes of your beloved little sister.
it is the hot summer sun you lie under, beneath the old oak tree on a sunday morning.
yellow is reminiscing on your past and realising that you miss her.

black is the void of colour, the clench of fist that make your teeth grit.
it is the turmoil and confliction, loneliness.
black is the inevitable end and where the feeling of sorrow reminding you you're ****.
black is reality though when will you accept it?

a man awaits for the next train. the air is dry and the night is old.
he sits on a bench, sighs and folds his hands under his jacket.
the sound of station is loud, the low buzz of voices making a familiar racket.
he is tired, his hands feel weary and his fingers are cold.
there is a woman just sitting across from him. she took off her plaid red scarf and began to fold it.
her skin was as frail as his. her old hair as white as snow and under the yellow lights her eyes were warmly lit.
he smiled, though she did not see him. he wasn't one to make a move so bold.
he closed his eyes as it began to spit, letting the light rain that was falling hit.
he decided not to disturb, she looked ever so peaceful wrapped in her winter knit.
a the man gazed upon his wife, watching the white snow collect on her parasol.
she looked over so beautiful under the headlights of the train, so warmly lit.

another smile
another pair of eyes
another hand to hold
another number to dial

another heart
another lover
another thought
another reunited part

another shirt undone
another innocent voice
another lustful glance
another one

Two halves, conjoined and a nightmare disguised as a quaint dream.
Forgotten, yet a constant linger behind a man's mind.
A lonesome story written in the eyes of the blind.
The frosty whispers in the wind, piercingly silence but a deafening scream.
They are a warm embrace in cold arms, not a promise of another day but a hope of a moment more, a mere lie— it seems.
Many memories pass, though they still remember each breath and blink every time.
Tears continue to fall like feathers on snow, a warm reminder of a lonesome life lived, one of a kind.
They seem them staring across from within the shadows, yet in blinding light.
Hand in hand, connected as one. Wearing a mask of peace reluctantly containing fear.
They sing a song of bliss, a welcoming of acceptance and recounting each encounter, each memory and breath.
Men see them as a passage of escape, a burning door to destiny and of one's unwanted birth right.
This weak life fades, this is why it is beautiful. They watch it drain away all that is there.

Though men run, death chases them faster.
Pulling them into nothingness, an abyss of darkness and emptiness.
They fear for though they are blind they are able to see and though they are deaf— they are able to hear.
Like a servant's endless attempts of escape, only to return in the end, fearful of his master.
Lives are countless though they remember every and in return—each life knows of them.
Mindlessly they fear them, though they understand what awaits them soon at the end.
All things must come to an end, all things end with them and they must all greet their master in death.
Beauty is in the moment of departing, an escape brought for you.
They beg for a second more but many wish they had not asked them.
Accepting death is beautiful and one cannot truly live without. Treasure each breath that escapes in the moment as tomorrow is no promise but a hope.

Too tired to love too tired to live
Too tired to love too tired to
Too tired to love too tired
Too tired to love too
Too tired to love.