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Held you. You was
so small. Didn't want to
tell how it felt to tower
over you; you, a sea
of freckles that you tried to
hide behind powder
and big (oh god, huge) eyes
that halt life's momentum.
As mush, utterly,
in thin pale hands.
Could throw you, I could,
far and away from me;
was that small.
Hated being small.
Wore high, high boots
and low, low tops, but you was
always small. Younger in years
and yet your soul the wiser by far.
And we could never be,
could we? You was good,
I was bad. Tale neverending--
how'd that go again?
"You contain yourself,"
your words to the point. "Passion burns;
I want to see you, feel you
burn brightly in the sky.
Let yourself go. Don't run away,
don't dread. You will hurt me as
hurtful is your way. No, simple man,
perfection is a lie, but truth is so
beautiful. Be you; don't spare me. I am here
when the curtain falls."
"Can't. I seen pains,"
my words of the fearful, "in a forgotten
place where the toil of
love brings down the
house built on mud. Poorly
chosen, unwisely rushed."
And yet, brave soul, you gave me hands,
and rested the freckly face against
my coffin of sentiment.
Inhaled the gold curls; fell (for a while).
Freckles bared, small hands
reaching. I could not hold for long.
Thanks. You know who you is.
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