(no subject)
Out here in the cold
darkness, this October night
seems perfect and
indestructable like,
us, this minute where
everything is attainable.
And even if I could touch your hands,
your face, what would I say?
To speak of dreams is to give you something,
a weapon, a gift,
this curse I laid upon myself.
My words are stunted,
the growth of them is slow and
clumsy like my hands
grasping at you,
reaching for something I've never found before
with anyone, in any place
at any time, it all eludes me still.
My mistakes are etched on my skin,
shining on my hands like scars and ringing in my head
a forgetfulness I cannot forgive,
a silence I will endure too long,
my need to speak silenced by my doubt.
darkness, this October night
seems perfect and
indestructable like,
us, this minute where
everything is attainable.
And even if I could touch your hands,
your face, what would I say?
To speak of dreams is to give you something,
a weapon, a gift,
this curse I laid upon myself.
My words are stunted,
the growth of them is slow and
clumsy like my hands
grasping at you,
reaching for something I've never found before
with anyone, in any place
at any time, it all eludes me still.
My mistakes are etched on my skin,
shining on my hands like scars and ringing in my head
a forgetfulness I cannot forgive,
a silence I will endure too long,
my need to speak silenced by my doubt.