Untitled 4

Don't ask, 'cuz I won't tell. <3
------------------------------------------------

I can hear it still, the fine music
The song of the day, as it plays
A song carved of sweet memory
And of bitterest cacao, this day
Sweetest balsamic, sweet as sin
And of the tea we drank that day
The tea she saw through, purest amber

I can hear it still, the sweet music
The cool, cold wind, yet never bitter
Only bittersweet, the sea air blowing
Blowing through our hair, her smile
Blowing through us, through our souls
And everything I wanted to tell her
Was right there, right there, glinting

I can hear it still, unforgettable
The music of her laughter that rang true
Of today, of today, always
And the taste of her lips, her flesh
The warmth of her close to me, in my arms
And of the sea, never cooling our ardor
But banked, always and ever smoldering

An Untitled Poem 2

Sometimes I haven't a clue what to name a piece I just churned out, I just do it and slap an "Untitled" on it. Perhaps some other time I'll figure it out, but for now this'll do.

Like any and all good citizens in this modern era, I feel a strange range of emotions when regarding mirrors outside of their chief purpose. I've written a bit of stuff on 'em m'self, and this is just the most recent.

My hands are on the wrong places in the mirror
I look again and the thumbs are upside down
I blink and they're back again, facing the wrong way
Why can't I see my palms, the lines engrained in the callous?
Why won't the mirror let me see it?

My hands are facing the wrong way in the mirror.
I can't look up I know he's looking at me
It's trying to tell me something but I don't know
I can't understand what he's saying, communication
It's broken down between us, but I must know.

My hands are on backwards in the mirror.
A subtle message, clear of restraint and fear
He wants me to know, he needs me to know
And I'm honestly trying to understand
But the vision is unclear and the mirror is dirty.