I forgot how cold it is in this house. And not just physically. It feels poorly lit and without emotional color or timbre. Every action brings a little bit of warmth to what I’ve worked on/cleaned, but I can already feel the emotion being drained from me, if that makes any sense.
"Your hair is on fire." or Three words, three phrases.
Uttered, muttered, shuttered words
slid among the sheets.
Eyelids closed to visionary prose;
Our tongues took the heat.
Talk whispered and moaned above
the allure of the throne,
came close to ears and repeated fears,
of feeling so alone.
Three words strained, resolved with four,
a kiss, and then a smile.
"The contents changed," the world rearranged,
And battered against our miles.
But the truth holds
with delicate folds,
(for me it never left.)
And sitting crowned,
I forgot to frown
at the imminent growing cleft.
In few days time paired with shorter days,
I’ll return to those sheets,
To lay again in wondered whim;
To strive for your burning heat.
Some things locked once need to be spoken.
Two phrases come to mind:
"You beautiful creature"
adorned by sunrises,
Truth in one, or both, or none?
"I trust you now"
- I had begun.
No expectations. Only surprises.”