I can be so cruel sometimes
the power of touch.
I think that, maybe, it really was my fault that I was so in love with the idea of love.
I want the flower, but the bud hasn’t even begun to bloom yet.
To be honest, I don’t know why I try so hard to befriend the past.
Maybe it’s out of reassurance, maybe it’s out of comfort -
in any case, I always wonder why it’s always me that comes knocking.
Maybe it was a mistake, and
maybe I can just let sleeping dogs
I’ll die of doubt, we all know it
I am torn between the worlds of impermanence and fantasies. Of commitment and indecision. Of giving it all, or only giving bits and pieces, shards of sun to pick up along the summer.
Fleet and fade with the weather, I suppose.
what a mistake.
and as you can see to our left
there is the hunger,
there is the wanting.
Little cloud in the corner of my eye
My little darling, made up of wisps and follies -
Bloom for me a little more, will you?
Your cotton edges reach and reach and reach,
but I long for them to
cover me up in your storm
smuggle me with rain and
cloak me within your tempest
rough, rough, rough to face
and yet so gentle to touch
I trace the outlines of
all along the dark links of your lips
kiss me beneath the drizzle
and feel the downpour zipping down our backs
My daydream disco
My cloud nine -
Will you, oh will you
Make it rain for a little while
We peddle, pumping heat with dry throats, satiating our thirst with views of the riverside. The city makes it’s appearance in the form of flossy ribbons; a motion picture light show zigs it’s way past your face and you try and catch it between your hands.
It’s finally here, what you’ve waited for all winter.