With your fingers curled around the nape of her neck she is silent.
Her skin is churning
slowly beneath you and her mouth makes not a sound.
She’s distracted but don’t think wrong of it.
“Mood swings,” She says gently and a faint smile dances
across her face.
And by the look on her face you would assume she is unhappy,
lonely even, but that’s a given--she's trying.
And by the look on her face you would understand that you
are still learning of the passion that
Grows.
Like a fever heated by the kindling of nothing producing
something over the fire.
And then a figure covers the smog and protects it.
With the blowing of the wind you press your lips upon hers
to keep her on the ground.
As the wind blows you hold her hands and try to keep her
away from home.
And eventually the winds pull her away, and she crashes into
the rushing waters.
You’re frustrated but don’t know what to call it.
You’re distant but don’t know how to feel.
You’re apathetic and you can’t help but turn away.
But you’ve been awake for too long and it’s about time you
rest with her fingers pinioned to your
chest she whispers nothing.
“Mood swings,” She says gently with a wide-eyed smile on her
face and she kisses you to sleep.
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