It's unusually refreshing to meet someone with such a confident personality,
Your unusual accent for a native—
The way, "Oh," sits on your tongue is superlative.
What a strange serendipity for you to come across me.

You ask about my inclinations towards music,
Listening to me wander about my playlists without a sound.
Drawing out the sound of my voice as your heart pounds:
It does the trick.

You warned me about things not to joke about,
Late at night where our minds aren't thinking straight
And my words slip as if fate...
Now you've left without a word, deaf to my shouts.

And here I am writing this poem,
Wondering about the impossibility of meeting somebody so close,
So quickly and intimately; with potential I suppose.
My heart yearns for your return, sadness its hymn.

Sitting around at the table,
Standing by the gate,
Not seeking a label,
Not seeking hate,

Wanting nothing more
Than a question to float by—
I'm quite shy
Finding interesting things on the floor.

Pride in talking of myself,
Greed in talking about myself,
Sloth in talking to myself.

Making slow conversation,
Small talk—
What a pain for reciprocation,
I just want...talk.

Wanting nothing more
Than a question to float by—
I'm quite shy
Finding interesting things on the floor.

Purple is your voice,
Soft as running fingers through groves of lavender—
Gentle on my ears.
Pink is your favourite,
Ironic with your wardrobe being a black hole
As you've called your beautiful mind.
Though it shows,
Your soft giggles
And the heartwarming way you talk to yourself
As you write.
White is our curious relationship,
Occasional exchange of calls online
And open to more.
Like the canvas you paint on.

I'd like to be close.
As my mind is too,
A black hole.
I hope you find curiousity there
As I do find in yours—
Because darkness is an unusual thing
Which pushes people away,
Yet draws them in.
Black are the shadows which follow us,
Darkest in the day,
And hidden in the night.

Yet there lies solace
In the lavender fields.

Just the other day I sat,
Atop a metal chair, varnished hardwood floors,
Within white, worn walls;
Listening to a quiet chat.

Just then —
A new character entered the fray of
Shadows embroidered upon the blank canvas.
Wings fluttering like rose petals in a hurricane,
Never settling for one spot.
Darting from point to point
In arbitrary geometric fashion,
Or elegant steps around the ballroom
Of air and space around its still den.

The shadow of the hummingbird reminded me
Of life's fleeting moments.
Similar to how one describes themselves in a resume:
Linearly, in point-to-point fashion;
Ignoring everything,
The far and few between sways in the wind.
Such blasphemy.

The moment came,
And left the room never the same.

Stuck between venting to
no one that understands
and
suicide.

Wading through the sea of people
I surround myself with,
Learning my efforts often go to naught;
Stressing over everything,
When really I should be fretting over nothing.

"Where's someone that will stay,"
I wonder,
"When will I find that reassurance again."