There’s a blizzard outside.

It’s cold enough, at least.

There’s one in my heart.

I close my eyes.

I imagine finding her.

She’s there, so close to me, yet so far.

From her waist, five thousand unfurling frills, flush with feather, fur, flesh.

Mouths, fingers, hands, and tongues prorupt from the folds, writing, speaking, typing, screaming all the thoughts and admissions I could never let out.

Her arms, covered in colour- cerulean, chartreuse, crimson, cyan.

They drip slowly, like paint applied too heavily to a canvas. They’re open, inviting.

Her chest is full, a warm glow coming from her many hearts, beating out of sync with each other, but somehow in tune with my own.

I feel the waves, pushing me back yet beckoning me forward.

The lips upon her face, so small yet so defined, form the smallest of smiles.

They whisper something to me. I push in closer to listen.

Her eyes pierce my own. They shine the deepest of violets, the brightest of verdant greens, the palest of viridians.

Our eyes are locked. For once, the contact is all I could want.

The coils of her hair reach out in all directions. They almost look like mine, but instead of masking her face, her body, her soul, they reach out, up, away.

I am held in the soft grip of her locks. I don’t resist.

I’m so close now. So close I could almost touch. So close I could almost understand. So close that I’m almost her.

I open my eyes.

My hair goes down to my upper chest. Stray hairs jut out in every direction.

My faint glowing eyes are obscured by a smudged pair of glasses. They feel as fragile on my face as my face itself.

My lips are chapped. They look almost as pale as the rest of my body.

My chest is covered by cotton and polyester. Faded blues form a barrier around me.

My arms have light brown spots up to the elbow. They’re held crossed in front of my stomach.

Below the waist is a twisted amalgam of what it should be, the saplings of what should be covered by the shade of what shouldn’t

She’s gone again.

I see her sometimes. On a shard of glass, the glare of a screen. She’s here, so close to me.

But so far.

go back to poetry
go back home