it is the clouded day
that drives me to your side,
in search of the colorful flame
you spark in me.
in fickle inconsistent light,
i feel momentarily illuminated.
and it's enough.
but unknowingly,
[or knowingly],
i have walked into my own winter.
the clouds are thick,
like a grey blanket made of wool
that has been pulled over
my eyes.
but it is your warmth
i'm blinded by:
radiating in the slight distance
always between us.
i let it take my senses from me,
and i am hopelessly lost--
constantly just out of reach
of any sort of spring.
i am lost, hopelessly lost
in your colorless eyes.
so i read you like a map;
endowing the twists and turns
of your body,
as if the road to my happiness
were printed on your skin.
i can only imagine
how those roads might look
if your limbs became intertwined
with mine.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 7:10 PM UTC
it is the clouded day
that drives me to your side,
in search of the colorful flame
you spark in me.
in fickle inconsistent light,
i feel momentarily illuminated.
and it's enough.
but unknowingly,
[or knowingly],
i have walked into my own winter.
the clouds are thick,
like a grey blanket made of wool
that has been pulled over
my eyes.
but it is your warmth
i'm blinded by:
radiating in the slight distance
always between us.
i let it take my senses from me,
and i am hopelessly lost--
constantly just out of reach
of any sort of spring.
i am lost, hopelessly lost
in your colorless eyes.
so i read you like a map;
endowing the twists and turns
of your body,
as if the road to my happiness
were printed on your skin.
i can only imagine
how those roads might look
if your limbs became intertwined
with mine.