Let your finger tips whisper across my cheek.
Listen to the words your eyes scream.
I'm focusing on trying to hear them.
But I can't.
I don't know what the songs you sing in the silence of our hugs are suppose to mean.
I don't even know their genre.
My finger tips stained with graphite of pencil lead.
Where words of passion lay between lines.
Wrapped in ribbons and bows, what does the word love mean?
I lost the meaning.
But now I don't want it.
Because whatever this is, this is what I want.
That can give my heart a smile, and butterflies turn to buzzing bees in a field within my gut.
Make my hand stutter in their words, face tint with the color that rushes through my veins.
Voice high as the angels, cracking like the concrete we walk.
I don't want a new definition of love.
I want a new word.
Because if love is what I once had in forms of clovers.
Then I don't want this to be it.
I don't want to even compare them.
Something so sweet.
Even if only for a moment.
Fleeting as it may be.
I don't want the past to move down.
That wagon should not move.
It should be kept in the ages of sand, no longer to move.
Not even worth a glance.
This is now.
And whatever this is; that's what it will be.
All I know is I don't want another tragedy.
I want my happy ending.