often times sitting beside you
makes my mind terribly fragile,

something created only to be
broken.

  my mind will drift until
the world is shrill violins
pleading for an answer.
  until the world is
made up of the unsure
peaks of mountains,
like the faint whispering
of winter come november.
  the world becomes quick
footsteps on hot pavement,
or uneven shadows of glass,
spinning into my vision until
my eyes can no longer see.

my mind becomes so many things,
the world refreshing. an exhale.

the world is a miraculous thing,
sitting beside you.