Two disparate excuses for the same dream
I long for the unreadable scrutiny
I seemed to cultivate before
I find myself increasingly tangible
The sensation of it comforting
The thought of touch wilts my composure
Into something more vulnerable,
Something more affected
It's the inner fear of silence
Long neglected, now perfected
And I can't hold it in no more
All those interweaving fancies
Begging for attention
Don't know who to pester
Till they can't take any more
Wouldn't want any animosity
Is it okay if I open up?
Can we maybe become friends?
Is it too late for you to lift your chin up
And convince me I'll see better days?
So comfortable in summery attire
But I long for climates sprinkled deep in snow
Fusing characteristics of the locales I admire
The only question: From which place to go
From which place to depart
From which place to be
From which place to be bothered by
To take apart
Whenever its actors don't play its proper part?
Whenever I am left dismayed at unrealised potential