Love. We dance under the stars in a belly of steeples. Smoke grazes the air, aglow and perfect—a revolution in rivulets, incandescent, grounded. Beauty explodes, burns to be heard, recognized. A fire extinguished bellows. You.
Hazel eyes conceal your moods but it is cheap, flimsy. I don't know why others don't see—too taken by the bad boy wanna be, the ego on display, falseness projected. You run, and I see a scared boy who feels deeply, aches for love. You can ignore, but it'll creep and linger in the dust of masks. It'll haunt and control unfathomable layers.
Fire under skin, in eyes. Souls.
When the words shimmy across the desk, when they slide out and hit, when murmured -- there's no turning back. Heaviness muttered and the freeze snaps across a silhouette, unhinged control, "No. I'm just supposed to get through this year and get out. No..." Body shakes no and it is practically shut down until I say, "I'm here. I don't scare easily." Our eyes lock back to wordlessness and fear lingers, but I know.