My hands still fall asleep when I am writing about you.
Reminding me that your galloping blood was a national geography marathon I never wanted to go off air.
I can't face my palms upward anymore. Every time I try my hands attempt to grab yours.
God is a selfish man.
One I will never understand.
He has left me hear.
Existing.
The power has been out for 2 years now and my circulation falls somewhere between ice caps and snow fall.
Leaving my movements rigidly slow.
Dripping notes into an empty orchestra waiting for you, a conductor to spark my fire.