We were looking for predictions
when we were stopped by addictions
and they took you away
to what we could not find.
So here I am with the company of myself,
flipping through the pages of the books on the shelf.
I see nothing but letters and words
so I cover my skin with feathers from birds.
I cannot fly, though- I cannot fly.
I cannot get to where you lie.
My water wings turn to ice
in this cold month of December.
The thought of your touch haunts my head
because it is so easy to remember.
This river is red as I ride it to rabbits
and by the time I get there you will have new habits.
Sailing to showers of petals from flowers,
but they are still so far away.
I am so repressed from the shortness of the day,
but I'll watch the free-fall of the snowflakes
because I am willing to wait for warmth
even if it is without you
and no matter how long it takes.