Thirsty in Poetry is the Window to the Soul...

Stark white walls line the memories we would have made. Blank canvases that call me when the night refuses escaping. And I feel like I am rushing back to the moment when we almost had a this. Something worth discovering, and yet it did not come to exist. Still, I miss.

And I miss.

And miss.

So much more than I can ever have. A thought, a wave, it’s a tidal force swelling upon an empty riverbed. Please understand, because these words don’t paint the beauty of your face the way my memory does and it quietly drives me mad. I was almost swept and wanted to be kept. To be kept and be held. Yet it left.

And you left.

All I had was left.

Cherish those kisses that we cannot have, they are just fragments in the attic of the lost and lonely strands of imagine that. So wanting to be more than just less than because bliss is the kind of thing you do not surrender. You do not give in. It’s the gift you fight for in the accompaniment of stone cold realism. It’s a wish and a kiss and a feeling you will always miss.

Because it’s beyond the pale veil of what might have been and just shy of what has actually happened.

It’s a world you can almost reach, yet you yearn to be there more than the risk of falling off the violent peak incites the weakness in your knees. It’s walking the edge with confidence despite always stumbling and not finding yourself to your feet.

Like your luck, always down on your hands.

Seducing defeat.

It’s lightning in a glass and all the brilliance that can pass between the knowing looks of wonder found when silence gives way to the first beauty of sound. It’s the music made when two lives cross like live wires in this mystic river we all sail.

You see I long and I live and I think and I miss and I wonder so often just what it must be like..

To not be the poet with the muse and instead be the parchment such madness always consumes.

Imprinted with the ideas in all their innocence.

Not left with all the scars that such love and loss collects.

Oh, what it is.

This treasure chest of possibilities strewn about careless.

Oh, what it is.

To be stained like glass in some cathedral for solemn worship.

Abstract and derelict in the consciousness of confusion.

Adrift in the moors that partake of such a choosing.

Always left here with a price and a lesson.

Never moving.

Never confessing.

Who I am.

And who are you.

They say you have got to have a reason to live.
Oh, I’ve got a reason.
I got a reason.
I got a reason to live.

But I’m greedy.
So greedy.
I’m greedy for two.

The truth is that it is that very thing.
No surprises. No illusion.
You have got to have a reason.
A reason to live.
And I’ve got a reason.
I’ve got a reason.
A reason to live.

But I’m thirsty.
So thirsty.
I’m thirsty for you.