It is not the ink but the way it lies splattered upon the page
It is not the slow descent of tears but the way in which they gather before they fall
It is not the art but how tightly the artist grips their brush
It is not the warmth of the blood but the closed systematic flow through vessels
It is not the time taken but the sound of the tick marking each moment
It is not the misty breath that hangs in the winter air but the continuous act of breathing
The wait until the curtain opens
The sun rises
The birds sing
The donned guises
The warm smile (5430) miles away
The lasting effect of heartspoken words sent yesterday
The stars in the sky shine so effortlessly
Compared to the unsatisfied wanderlust
encouraged by the taunting whispers of the breeze
And in those infinitely wondrous moments
The ones straight out of dreams of course
Lie all the things I want for you
The warm footprints of where we've been and more
