The idea of it has long infatuated me.
It leaves my mind singing, spinning and filled
But I am tired of looking at you from the corners of my eyes
and speaking in a voice without passion and music
I am finished
with ensnaring myself in compulsive lies
then digging myself back out,
for I know it quietly destroys me
I am tired of sand and water and unconfirmed hope
of a cool face and burning heat
I should not continue on in this strange pattern
I must refrain from feeling anything
and cast away my ardency
for I am tired of thinking
that it isn’t yet the spring
I am tired of secretly knowing
that it will never be the spring
And it is when I am tired that I love (the idea of you)
the most

The blank is you
and you are a blank:
nothing for me to shape, create or destroy
blank
and only you can destroy me
I am tired of exposing myself and of showing my bones
I am finished with thinking and calculating
and analyzing every shift of your fingers
I wish not to blink and miss a bit of you
yet I do
I am tired of wanting to feel the opulence
of the clay and green and crisp white lines
of the smooth cerulean ripples of a foreign pool
And I still see the light
past my own reflection
not green but white, almost as if I can reach out
past the shadows and the woods
and the drowning music
and touch the lights hanging from the string
touch (the idea of) you

I think you are marble
for even the most beautiful statues crack
until only their essence remains
I am tired of asking
Do you love all?
Or no one?
or is there another force behind your song?
Is it the green and cerulean and crisp white lines
that define your essence,
or will there be light when you crack?
I yearn for this (idea of) light
It is why I stand on the rock and look,
why I peer through my reflection and reach,
why I dance at the windows
It is for the silence
the lies, the angst, and the others
and it is why I am tired and cannot sleep
It is a simple truth I refuse to accept and must always call a lie
It is (the idea of) you that I love.