you are glass, i am cut crystalline child. we are spectrum on the carpet, we move patterns on floor tiles. the open road is calling out our names, lets leave tonight, find some sun-drenched, wondrous elsewhere, through the windscreen pours white light. Advertisements
that month was all frosty morning walks, the anticipation of things yet to come, and the scent of incense, rising through the air in mysterious, momentary patterns. i explored labyrinthine abbeys, climbing hundreds of crooked, centuries-old and well-worn steps, and was for my effort rewarded with a rooftop garden sanctuary in which i could catch my breath. that place was like something out of a dream, an ancient courtyard walled with granite archways and stained glass windows, quietly alive even in the heart of winter, with delicate grasses and wildflowers.
it’s 2am, and my slippered feet are tiptoeing threadbare persian carpets covering creaking, victorian oak floorboards. tealights glow a gentle yellow, flickering in lanterns all around me, twisting a somewhat spectral, and dwindling, ghostly dance on terracotta kitchen tiles.
mountain boy cries out to an ocean wild, brave and scattered, corals and lullabies. watercolour patterns in pacific green eyes.
island child looks out to a foreign sky mist and charcoal, feeling the desert sigh fever dreams and thunder in her tundra brown eyes
but if true love’s on the open road, and if strengths too hard to capture, you won’t stop, you won’t find quiet, until you’re finally back together.
so you built that wooden house, painted it blue, filled it with laughter, and with maps, stained glass, and shifting light, your endless dance with colour.
far west in early morning fog you crumble into gold and leave me just a wooden mask a dying long-stem rose the grass was pale in dawn light the air all pine and salt a pastel picture framed in white move patterns in the smoke
mountainous peaks of light, a passing glimpse into a shadowed world just out of sight. i’ll turn bedsheets to glacial fields or some furious, heart of winter, storming ocean scene, which quite fittingly mirrors my thoughts. what did you think you’d discover on some distant shore? run to the west coast, perhaps you’ll find peace of mind disguised as mist and pine.
the night skies a canopy of shimmering lace the breeze cuts right through you, raptured shivering grace relinquish the fragments of whatever haunts you to a foreign horizon, cast them out, and be new.