They say love comes in many ways.
Through words or other things,
but love is fickle .
It's the closest thing to hating yourself you can achieve without saying so aloud.
It holds people where it shouldn't,
tethering them
nary giving a thought,
and they love.
Some feel it is there and know it well.
It's the sound of a voice,
the warmth of a touch,
the glint of an eye,
the feeling of a hand to hold.
Those bits of nothing that build worlds.
They see all of its intricacy,
peering in with shining eyes.
Other wish it were and chase it down
like Apollo after Daphne.
Its the thrill of the chase,
the pain of a beating heart,
the slip of smoke through fingertips.
Those trailings of vapor make oasis in the dark.
They hunt them like foxes in the fens,
tracking prey with desperate hands.
YOU ARE READING
Poetics and Musings
PoetryJust a place to keep some original poetry. Feel free to leave feedback, I always am looking for it
