Tuesday, October 12, 2010

I

Like things are slipping away, though
It's probably unlikely to conform
To the high tension scribbles that
You fear are stark evidence of dreams

Like the need desire want to keep
Your thumb over all you ever made to
Be precious, though the same is yet
To be said for reciprocation

Like the gnawing ache inside that
Ultimately only one being can ever
Fill to make you feel as if the
Cosmos is seen only in your eyes

Like the plethora of deep cocoa
Swirls which aren't poor in intensity
But the black hole is mended only when
The whole picture is yours, and yours alone.

Posted by Rebecca @ 1:54 AM