attempting to express "longing" in verbal communication
In our entirety of human existence
we haven't yet learned that words are meaningless.
Compositions to help paint pictures of emotions
but too often the canvass confuses.
Meaning is lost in the translation and how well you listen.
I've tried for years it seems, to understand your voice.
I elaborated the details but my imagination isn't good enough.
Lying in the space we once occupied drowns my head in memories.
For years I've tried to find pretty enough words for your pretty smile to stop by. But what can I say?
Time is too short to waste on wishes.
My clumsy words fall out of my mouth and break like dishes,
scattering the fragments of what I would say around us.
If only our eyes could meet...
I long for a moment where we don't have to speak
and let our love do the communicating for the most part.
But like I said our words are art
and my instruments - a crude brush of heart,
saltwater tears for dabbing,
and only crimson paint is fitting.
I ache from staring;
how many times will I look this over before I can be sure
that it communicates correctly your role as my cure?
Perfection lies in your eyes.
Now can you see
that this awkward masterpiece
is only composed of...
you and me.
we haven't yet learned that words are meaningless.
Compositions to help paint pictures of emotions
but too often the canvass confuses.
Meaning is lost in the translation and how well you listen.
I've tried for years it seems, to understand your voice.
I elaborated the details but my imagination isn't good enough.
Lying in the space we once occupied drowns my head in memories.
For years I've tried to find pretty enough words for your pretty smile to stop by. But what can I say?
Time is too short to waste on wishes.
My clumsy words fall out of my mouth and break like dishes,
scattering the fragments of what I would say around us.
If only our eyes could meet...
I long for a moment where we don't have to speak
and let our love do the communicating for the most part.
But like I said our words are art
and my instruments - a crude brush of heart,
saltwater tears for dabbing,
and only crimson paint is fitting.
I ache from staring;
how many times will I look this over before I can be sure
that it communicates correctly your role as my cure?
Perfection lies in your eyes.
Now can you see
that this awkward masterpiece
is only composed of...
you and me.