Sometimes we just want to hold it
because it warms us

we can't decide
it might be bad for us
When the air's whispers are warm and the moon refuses to entertain

we can't decide
it might be good for us
When the wind carries chills and the sun searches for its shadow

we take it
into ourselves
knowing the potential harm
wanting the promised help

Sometimes we just want to hold it
because it warms us

©Christopher F. Brown 2016

Hair the colour of an Americano,
Petite denim shorts, blue.
The scent of a perfume distinguishable, to you.
Those skin-coloured tights – pleading to be torn.
You’re everything I desire.
Yet you’re everything I resent.