My mind revolves around the Indian Summer.
The same one where you and I first met.
I told you upfront that I’d never been a lover,
But you’ve become the photograph stuck in my head.

The music filled the atmosphere
And the world became our playground.
I’m trying to remember what it was like to hear
The instruments that never made a sound.

The colors were much brighter
Where you and I would dance.
I used to be a fighter
Till the first time I held your hand.

I cannot forget that Indian Summer.
The same one where I first saw your face.
It was only the earth’s surface that I was able to hover
And now I soar with the stars in the never-ending space.

The colours dance together
In patters
Soaking up every drop of my eyes
And as they go, paintings of sunsets
And eyes and smiles
Found on the cover of books--
All images of a near past,
It's things like these that keep me awake
Away from the darkness of the moon
Or the sun in its footsteps
Away from time itself
And the absence of regularity.
No, I would rather live with my colours
And thoughts of smiles and the glitter
They bring to the drops of blue.
These are the images held in youth.
These are the images I will use.

You are a candlelight
Kept inside four glass walls,
And I am a moth.
I will keep fighting the glass;
To penetrate through
Until I finally have you.

The light was visible in the dark.
I could see the white asphalt
Beaming through the window.
I could make sense of the streets
And though it was more of night
I could still see clearly
It kept me uneasy.

Wrapped around my shoulders
Like a hug and a blanket
I stare into the white that bled through the window
I could not see the night.
The night didn't feel like night
The day didn't feel like day
The world became a little colder
With every step I take.

I chose to stand still this month,
And for some reason it made sense
To be slow and hunched forward
To no longer own any energy
To realize that my heart froze over
Unable to keep my thoughts warm.

And though that winter felt so long ago,
It is vivid
Like the painting of the white of the asphalt
Bleeding through the window.

He said,
"But I am not perfect."

She replied,
"You don't need to be. You are simply human. And that, for me, is perfect."

It amazes me
That we are made
The same way
With our eyes
Our mouths
And our hearts,
Yet we are so unique
In the way we see,
How we speak
And how we
Love.

I read poems in the dark,
Managing to make sense of the work.

She brought a lantern
And illuminated the words,
Bringing me
To a new light.