It was yesterday
when I held you in my hands,
and yet, it appears
as if decades have passed;
time grew a stubbornness,
it crossed it’s arms, it held a frown
and refused to move any quicker.
I then look at my hands
and fill them,
with dreams of
all the fine places in this world
we could be at,
fantasies of us running away
the dictators at a distance,
a quiet life secluded,
deep inside
the forests of simplicity.
Haven’t I?
Haven’t I felt,
A million butterflies inside,
Thick roots of desire
absorbing the agony of waiting,
A crown of patience, worn and glorified,
The crown fallen -
at an upward glance.
And yet,
if I am to wait
Bring me closer
to where you are;
offer me a consistent supply of respite,
light me a bonfire
under an infinity of summer stars,
be the bright sunlight
to my pouring rage
Or?
watch me flood!
these empty notebooks waiting,
with words of shameless desperation.
Instead,
Call me home
to where you are,
I beg of you!
