There are those of us
who roam alone,
who search for fleeting
or escapable intimacies,
who need to touch you
just one more time
or for the first time
because their fear
ate them alive
the last time,
who imagine love
like yellow flowers
and sunshine
in flowing summer fields,
but know that isn’t real
but a fantasy from a movie
or a song
or a poem
they came across
many lives ago,
probably in winter
when their heart was frozen
by the snow,
and they needed to believe
the warmth would come again,
who see themselves
amongst the stars,
floating in the blackness of
the deepest part of space,
until they shock themselves awake,
and realise their mind is actually
the darkest spot
in the universe,
and no matter what they wear to sleep,
the bed stays cold,
even in the summer heat.

Original Work: Kelsey H. 5/1/17