The picture is a work of Alex Stoddard. It is not mine.

His name
is as beautiful
as his face.

Like something heard
that triggers me
to see colors
and smell scents.

His heart
is as cold
as his voice.

But to him,
I’m the fire
that would exist
to give warmth.

His eyes
are as strange
as the unusual.

Yet what’s strange
is familiar
to a fellow
strange thing.

His words
are knives
and pretty paints.

When he speaks,
I’m either hurt
or the world
is full of colors.

He is there,
then gone,
perhaps a transient.

I’m always waiting
and hoping to be
the only reason
he comes back.

He has
my heart
on his sleeve.

Though when he leaves,
he burns it,
along with the piece
of a hoping girl.

But I am
thankful for
what’s sudden.

Because we suddenly met,
suddenly loved,
suddenly left,
suddenly moved on.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s