Feel the need to reach out and grab hold of you, as you go by.
No reason. Except the colors of you, the particular way that you fold in and echo out again, touches me, and
you might be special, you might not. But I saw you, knew the timbre of your voice, exchanged for a moment a precious ounce of my time for an ounce of yours, and, as far as I know
we all go spiralling again, out toward the stars, to our personal hells and our fail-safe salvations, marbled sometimes by regret, relief and patience to escape what we couldn’t agree or share together.
Overlap is love. Color fading, and the arm stark, pale against the pillow in the cold neon light.
I have to hold on a little longer
let you know your colors were significant
that my soul only released you, because it had to
and if I see you again,
you’ll be home.