Bubbles
Hot flash, red.
How it bubbles,
with different colors.
blue - green - yellow
One for you, one for the other.
how much better
does it feel?
Multicolor,
running through my veins.
Divided streams of lush,
and for the lesser why bother,
because the more the merrier.
Reality to dream; and back again,
in a circle that rolls forward,
pushing the boundaries of the self,
and but your smile to rely on.
My desires lay; calm
in the unsettling setting of your heart,
and with but only my eyes to gaze.
Lashes in the tree bark,
and hair made of leaves;
swapping faces like ripples on the water,
hands like a fountain dripping,
few touches of your soul.
A caress to the mind,
intertwined stars,
that I see on the two sides of your face;
sometimes like the iris of a stray cat in a head light,
flustered; not knowing where,
stuck in between, unable to decipher,
the lines in cobbles
on which the fearful bug
crawling underneath; may erupt
because it may no longer pretend
like the cold does not mend.
Your ears I curve,
out with my fingers.
and deeply I murmur:
le chant des fleurs.
So I wish.
It's the cold grip on your hot cheeks I long for,
that will remind you that you are alive,
to be the moving shadow of a flying bird,
and irradiate.
How it bubbles,
with different colors.
blue - green - yellow
One for you, one for the other.
how much better
does it feel?
Multicolor,
running through my veins.
Divided streams of lush,
and for the lesser why bother,
because the more the merrier.
Reality to dream; and back again,
in a circle that rolls forward,
pushing the boundaries of the self,
and but your smile to rely on.
My desires lay; calm
in the unsettling setting of your heart,
and with but only my eyes to gaze.
Lashes in the tree bark,
and hair made of leaves;
swapping faces like ripples on the water,
hands like a fountain dripping,
few touches of your soul.
A caress to the mind,
intertwined stars,
that I see on the two sides of your face;
sometimes like the iris of a stray cat in a head light,
flustered; not knowing where,
stuck in between, unable to decipher,
the lines in cobbles
on which the fearful bug
crawling underneath; may erupt
because it may no longer pretend
like the cold does not mend.
Your ears I curve,
out with my fingers.
and deeply I murmur:
le chant des fleurs.
So I wish.
It's the cold grip on your hot cheeks I long for,
that will remind you that you are alive,
to be the moving shadow of a flying bird,
and irradiate.