"Sitting by candle light,
On a bed that feels empty since you left.
Listening to boys with guitars, broadcasting their sublime stories through my speakers.
They talk of the quiet things, that no one else should know, with such brutal honesty I want to cradle it.
With a pen in my fingers I know the truth too well; It can't be contained.
I know that this isn't what they sing about. It's different.
I know it's not the same, but I also know this is better than any ballad sung by a wasted Romeo.
This is the making, the insulation and lining.
These are our roots.
Houses fall down when they are built on weak foundations, and even if the house does fall down, good foundations always remain.
Imprinted into the bedrock, a mark that withstands the storm. Sitting by candle light, I can still taste the snow.
I can still feel the flakes melting on my lashes, touching my lips where yours have before.
I still feel the sting on my fingertips from the cold.
I realise I miss you.
I realise I'm scared; and I know I still have my guards up. Not just around me, but protecting you too.
So much is at stake, so much responsibility.
When you play with fire it's so easy to get burned.
I hope you realise you've inspired me.
I know sometimes words aren't enough.
I know I have an artist's soul; but words are the colours on my pallet, and I have a writer's heart.
So when I paint this picture of words for you, know that the colours glow.
You warm my fingers when they sting, and no matter what ruin befalls our bricks and mortar, our foundations will last through it all.
Writing by the light of this fire, I hope to myself that what we build is strong."
On a bed that feels empty since you left.
Listening to boys with guitars, broadcasting their sublime stories through my speakers.
They talk of the quiet things, that no one else should know, with such brutal honesty I want to cradle it.
With a pen in my fingers I know the truth too well; It can't be contained.
I know that this isn't what they sing about. It's different.
I know it's not the same, but I also know this is better than any ballad sung by a wasted Romeo.
This is the making, the insulation and lining.
These are our roots.
Houses fall down when they are built on weak foundations, and even if the house does fall down, good foundations always remain.
Imprinted into the bedrock, a mark that withstands the storm. Sitting by candle light, I can still taste the snow.
I can still feel the flakes melting on my lashes, touching my lips where yours have before.
I still feel the sting on my fingertips from the cold.
I realise I miss you.
I realise I'm scared; and I know I still have my guards up. Not just around me, but protecting you too.
So much is at stake, so much responsibility.
When you play with fire it's so easy to get burned.
I hope you realise you've inspired me.
I know sometimes words aren't enough.
I know I have an artist's soul; but words are the colours on my pallet, and I have a writer's heart.
So when I paint this picture of words for you, know that the colours glow.
You warm my fingers when they sting, and no matter what ruin befalls our bricks and mortar, our foundations will last through it all.
Writing by the light of this fire, I hope to myself that what we build is strong."
1 comment:
These are beautiful words. You remind me of myself when I was your gender. Nah that never happened.
Also, I am hoping that there was a Brand New reference in there? (The quiet things...)
If not please lie and tell me that it was so.
Handwritten
xx
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