Being alone with you,
I know you will read me
like I'm the open pages of a book.
You read me better than any story
I could ever wish to construct,
and yet you don't pry,
never dig to find out why
I am the way I am.
Why I cry sometimes,
and why othertimes my eyes
can't find the hidden well of tears inside.
You never sigh, rolling eyes skywards
raise hands in despair at my silent stare,
because you know,
that when those taps are turned on
then all of my stories will flow.
It's like singing a duet.
Not trying to overtake,
letting voices merge,
finding harmonies, hidden keys
to unlock more of our great mysteries.
Bending through the silence,
blending into the night.
You are the voice I hear,
as I sleep tight.
It's a song,
with a muse
that knows you
inside out.
Truly understands
the person below the tune.
The quietness,
the moments of solitude.
The way the voice
starts to reach higher, higher,
mountainous and grand.
Then crashes
like cymbals on the land.
But then there are times when
I don't think you see me,
you just see the poet
with his head tuned
to some messed up frequency.
You don't feel
the way my heart beats extra quick,
when I see you step into a room,
You don't hear its thud. To me it's more
like a crashing boom.
You don't know the way my heart yearns
to hold on to you as the world turns,
just to feel your breath against my chest,
as we witness the spinning sky shows.
Thanks for reading
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