It’s the sound of your voice,
And how you hear mine, with all the noise.
It’s the smell of the air,
As you stand behind, and tussle my hair.
It’s the warmth of your words,
And how I keep company with them,
It’s your songs, and how I match them with the chords,
And how they stay in my mind, like tiny little gems.
It’s the apologies,
And how they never amount to a non existent fault.
It’s the fact that I cannot ask that from you,
And why it should never be.
It’s the silent thud of loneliness,
And how I long for the past.
It’s the thought of doing without,
And yes, living without.
the messages transmitted through silence,
like everything in the bloodstream;
silent but nonetheless complete..
the path of least resistance,
like the running waters of the river;
hitting stones but forever flowing.
for thoughts clear enough to be words,
like the field of light cast by the moonlight’s glow;
plain and true.
for feelings strong enough to be tunes,
like a bird’s song against the murmurs of the trees;
with highs and lows of pure candor.
for the lies you tell yourself,
like the fact that you are well and fine;
little lies you tell to get by.
the words you hear but can’t accept,
like the reasons why you are genuinely special;
words you deem false and untrue.
for the false thoughts and feelings you’d like to hide,
like the hideous secret of a prideful maiden;
cracked and stained but permanently present.
for the moments of weakness and pure surrender,
like a beaten down ship traveling to port,
with its white sail hoisted for utter defeat.
When the pixie dust has ran out
And all that’s left are the shards of fantasy,
I’d treasure your memory that stays in my sleeve
And know you won’t be here in reality.
When the spell of the wand is gone
And the clouds steered clear so the moon could shine,
I’d go back to my corner with the feeling you’ve awakened
And know, looking back, that was a crime.
When the trick of the light has left,
And the scars I covered start to peek,
I’d pat my back for the prevented theft
And rinse my heart with the tears that had leaked.
If you let me,
I’d touch your face–
So I could see you
If you let me,
I’d listen to your voice all night–
So I could know it
if you let me.
I’d navigate through your notes,
And sail through your thoughts.
I’d like to walk the paths to your mind,
And see what comes across.
Whose name would appear? Whose face?
The world that surrounds you,
The path you’d like to trace?
Or questions we haven’t got a clue?
You’ve done this before, to me,
You’d do it again, I know,
And now is my time to explore you–
That beautiful, beautiful mind of yours.
It’s the color of how we sin.
The swimming senses when all of the stars collide,
And the universe is one with us for once.
It’s the aftertaste of how we sin.
The flavor lingering between the lips,
And in each and every breath.
It’s the ghost of the thought of how we sin.
Like the dust settling from a husk,
Slow, graceful, perpetually present; without end.
The trees floating in the sky
With the brightest of the yellows and tangerines
And marshmallow clouds slightly burnt by the sun,
Its sweet pink and green and blue sweetness
Slowly oozing out like rain,
Our candy cane umbrellas at their mercy.
A spider weaving strings of rainbow
Amongst the branches of tootsie rolls,
By the river of legos and shoe laces and sugar cubes
Where unicorns play and bathe and drink,
And the pixies hailing cabs made of popcorn
To a far off place where a giant shoe sings.