Like a skier lost in the snow, I am scared stiff, risking is but a word one can eat if time finds end, put blame inside, away from your id, hate chains that unite, cold and as dead as a doornail, seek smile, pure and oily, and had you made me believe earlier, sunup, first light, then I would have been in your couch, sleeping in the very core of your heart, saying, ah, if angels ask me how, then mud’s becoming and those chains without key, attracts, had you eaten the burger with fries dipped in reasonable strawberries, sap and a leaf, then its leaf would have become leaves. Really, risking is only fitting when a chain is caught, security. Lemons: when will you part? Sober: So young and trapped in our love…sweet love for if walls, then, stand in, will the heart wake? Trust the heart that loves willing to be as fit as a fiddle. Holding you tight, death brags darling gold of May and December.
I, was once, and of the care that beams, and of the ‘bask-the-voice’, and a touch of hope like a skier lost in the snow, nerveless, cool and hushed–
I found you.
You found me.
I’m bound to you.
You’re bound to me.