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Cotton

January 23, 2013

eighteen

I can only write of love or fear.
I can only write of you.
My little drop of rain.
In the midst of storm.
I can only dream of love or fear.
I only dream of you.
You settled like a snowflake.
In my warm palm.
Settled and shrank and scared me.
How the night had passed you over.
How you sank into my arms like you’d dreamt of them before.
How you lay, warm and calm.
Whilst the world entire was ending.
The sun’s own core exploding.
All the light around it bending.
The way your eyes betrayed no trace.
Of ages over and glass upending.

Every tear I’ve tried to cry.
They won’t fall.
And they won’t run.
Into that turning sea.
Where I toss these pretty bottles.
They miss you, every one.
On a beach some morning.
In my past and Never Never.
In that peaceful pencil drawing.
Dawning of the day as rain fell.
And I felt it not at all.
It was grey and wind whipped your hair.
But you’d never looked so beautiful.
And neither had the day.
At least, the way that I recall.

Since then you’ve owned my days and owned my rest.
The rest of time has given over.
With no quarter, to my past.
That morning when I was young again.
When my hands didn’t look so very old.
He sits not before a pen.
Frantically trying to draw you back.
But has you, as I had you.
No need for when or what might have been.
He lays in a morning before you.
And he doesn’t feel the cold.

Don’t open your eyes, I beg you.
I’ll never shut mine if you do.
Because I know they’ll never meet.
Quite the way that they used to.

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From → Poetry

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