The Scorched blue

I write to forget the mass of it, the quantities never touch, leave me be. Behind the desk there is a note, look it through, look at you, the mirror is in the hall, the paintings scrawl over the ceilings of gratitude, they are glad you came. But you leave too soon, im trapped in one of those paintings, perhaps the way her hands quiver or where the chair falls, i catch it. In the brushes of self belief, there are balloons in our tears, they fall as we speak.

The motions of our youth become permanent briele on our faces and the toddlers reach for the unknown, looking into wisdom. The chair falls, the apartments hot and the air is tired, perhaps a nap but the evening whispers of greater things and the air becomes cooler and falls into place, like the chair. The oranges of time, the scorching blues of our monumental lives.

Now here for the tide to take and the bride to wake and we listen, still like our mothers, we were here for today, the chairs have now fallen, the paintings are hot, nobodys in the back and everyones now not, but who were we before, like the teachings never taught, who are we now, like the future never caught the railings of time, the way you look, everytime. And I’ll be still, i’ll be here in the scorched blues of our integrated emotional love, devoured and gone, like the chairs in the rivers of red, like the chairs in the shivers you said and we’re here, startled but the blues in our ears, and on our love.