my hands are made of natural things
maybe i am only blood and bones
made to last only shortly
quickly slowly dying

all the colours of the world won't fill me
I long for emotions of gold
for an ice cold ocean
raindrops to break the cycle

searching for your earrings on his earlobes
memories embroidered everywhere
on my walls are pictures and meanings
I try to nurture flowers from my flesh

maybe I should stop writing poetry for you anyway
you don't get my symbols
no matter how obvious the metaphors
your ears will not listen.

You're my moon.