he reminds me of smoke
pale smoke, with frozen edges
fingers numbing from the chill
while fingers struggle to light
his drug.
The sort to make coffee nervous..
the sort that comforts in his pressence
while disrupting every motion of your world
bedtime stories, that aren't coming
lovely anyway, for his humor
and intelligent sense
oh how he can be cold
his tenderness and warmth
far more memorable..
I whisper these..
to the wind, to see him turn away
watching the last of fall's leaves
gently blow away...
nevermind, I mouth to him
for I was seeking the poetry of you,
and you were blissfully unaware
