At a sinister call of early snowflakes
I die but to remind you I once breathed your air
I cry but to tell you I have been on the ground for a while now
And that there’s twigs around me
Scattered, once belonging in a nest.
Far away’s the birds that perched on my hands
As gently as you held them,
As roughly as you drew circles on them
While the whirlpools in my chest dissolved the saltiness in my breath.

To love and to do nothing about it.
The more I love you, the less you want it.
To love and to do nothing about it, is like
The warmth of your hands, that I try to feel
In the pockets of my jacket.

It is like the tiny instance of time

Before I retreat a hug, when I think about you.
In the silence of midnight,
I envy the walls that can hear your voice.
In the silence of midnight,
I am the wolf that howls,
Yelps and yearns for distance.
Because, I think, distance inspires love.
Distance, is what makes the oceans soar.
Distance, is what crinkles my forehead.
Distance, is what requires aim.
Distance, is what lets you forget the longing you probably could see in me
And what tortures me into thinking about your crackling laughter
That slits right through me,
Punctures a hole in my chest, the size of the moon.
What would I know of the mysteries of the moon?
I am just a dusty ray of sunshine.
One that hopelessly wishes to land on your eyelashes
While you look at yourself in the mirror first thing in the morning.
While I love,
I hope I can do nothing more about it.