Backwards over frosty eyelids,
i follow your movement closer than microscopes.
I like the way you look down at your feet when you talk.
Timid brows, like caterpillars, hang low over ice capped lashes.
Streams flowing, sideways and slow, down corridors of window panes.
Past glass, past light, past darkening days.
And in the cold i dream of vain, interlocking hearts,
like interlocking fingers,
strangely fitting,
puzzle pieces that were never meant to work so well;
and i am left confused, with seven pieces fitting in all the wrong places,
but so perfectly well.
So why does it work if it wasn't meant to be?
Murmuring soliloquies in bathroom stalls and cheap motels.
Harking the Harold, angels sing, doorsteps, malls, parks with swings.
Capturing the past with memory and lens.
Your gray overcoat muddled into the scenery,
your black beanie the largest visible aspect of a picture, framed and shot through snow and ice.
The browns and oranges of the winter cabin accented with the glow of a fire,
brings enjoyment to it wintry peak;
early morning frost biting at window panes,
over glass, over light, over dissipating darkness;
and your frosted eyes blink, in wonder, in contemplation, in thought.
But more memories have been made;
ones that don't leave the psyche.
Instead they penetrate consciousness and emotion,
changing how we feel towards each other,
for the rest of our lives.
Inside broken down unkempt hearts,
i find comfort.
My continuance to not cause change, but evoke acceptance of the perception i hold of it,
leads to change, growth, destruction, chaos, problems, fears.
The undo-er of good; the bringer of self realization, the onset of existing,
feeling, believing, thinking, choosing, speaking; subjectively.
But i am not choosing sides; whether good or evil.
I am only seeing you by way of brain chemistry and light refractions.
And from where i am,
the reddening of your wind burnt nose makes me run my fingers through my hair nervously, unconsciously.
I will write you love letters,
but only if only you want me to.
