Prisms Reflecting Colors We Don't Understand

this whole story starts in places we don't even know yet,

prisms reflecting rainbows in frequencies we can't see

into the darkest chambers of our hearts - our whole being.

my eyes will search with sharpest perception for you,

halfway across the world, in cafes you once dreamed about.

in earnest hope i want you to look for me in my green sweater,

and car of matching color where your footprints pressed against the window.

if i removed them, it wouldn't mean they weren't ever there.

and let the piano play, and bounce around in this monkey house,

no other man here could see you like i do, like i want you to see me.

you never told me your greatest fear, but maybe it's best that way,

i'll always be wondering about what makes your hair stand on end.

and when you tell me your troubles, i stay up all night, like a phantom,

endlessly pondering the way i wish i could be holding you.

and the way i see your eyes, they're prisms, reflecting light,

rainbows in frequencies we cant see, lighting my heart with X-rays;

i would willingly risk cancer so you could see straight through me.

but these separate rooms in separate houses derail me,

in the softly spoken light of your words, in your beautiful vowel pronunciation, 

it is only the dim light of my cell phone primitively gasping for breath;

alas, your words are simplest rain on my window, machine could never imitate.

and this whole story doesn't end, it only leaves me longing for the next chapter,

while our vines are entwined, i hastily press my life forward to the next scene:

the one where i hold you, and you smile like you do, so gorgeously,

and by some egregious force, the hours pass like minutes.

if i controlled time, eternity would be every second your lips touched mine.

and if feeling surpasses my judgement, have mercy on me,

the weight of your supreme lightness is almost too much for me.

and if words become your greatest fear, have mercy on me,

the curvature of your smile and your single dimple inspire,

as if the spirit of God descended unto my mind and spelled beauty D-A-N-I.

but here, our eyes, just prisms reflecting colors we could never recognize,

left half-weeping in your arms for my inability to see, and yet, you hold on. 

Reviews

[Amata Luna]

This is one great writing. Such a vivid imagery and imagination.

[x]

Awesome writing. Well done.