Do not find a river yet use spit to bathe

When my words escape my lips and find yours,
That is where  I know we are meant to be

One tree does not make a forest
Neither does one grain of sand make a desert

Don't tell anyone
But I think my hands are too weak to catch the right type of love, the good kind that does not drip between your fingers in a sticky mess
But the kind that has wings to fly but remains nestled in your palms

I stalk,
And then I find you in my belongings
I find you between age old books as a stained piece of paper unbelonging in the chapters
I find you behind a photograph stained and almost unrecognisable, I find you there as worn out ink and there I try to read you but fail oh so miserably
I continue to search for you, find you and lose you again in the mass of my clutter while the clock ticks on waiting until I find you again

Who would have thought that when I was sent from heaven with such a hue on my skin it would create an uproar of rage and start a river of blood
Who could have fantomed the chains and the beatings that would still be associated with the hue of this skin
Who knew that the hue of this skin, the smooth darkness that I see within the mirror would suddenly be an automatic 'X' on my back.
So I lay here confused because heaven should have told me what comes with the hue of this skin.

Pelvic stars glow across my being,
But just because this light allures you does not mean you are welcome to take what lays in between the infinite universe of those stars