The Sun is High, and Golden on Your Skin
The Inanity of Fate and Love
They say it never happens to people in this house;
a chance meeting, a fated encounter.
We all thrive in windows, peering desperately through light
and deciphering what seem like words
forming in the shadows of the trees outside.
No one knows of the truth; the jalousies
are new but frosted.
And then a strange wind,
a door slams open before me,
a road winding outside.
I see you walking,
and I wonder if I should walk with you --
would you allow me to?
I question the steps that would lead me away from our roof
and bring me closer to your side (if you permit).
The sun is high, and golden on your skin;
the sweat above your lips, diamonds.
Your stories, treasures unmarked and priceless.
But they have warned me,
noontime is never eternal.
What happens when we've gone too far
and the night comes by without us knowing?
I fear that you will quicken your pace
and run back to shelter,
while I would never want to return
to our crowded, empty house.
The paths that lead us back home
are cruel to those who wish to forget it.