Bitter wind blows static in my ears, drowning out
any whispers rebounding in me since you've left.
In the quiet caverns of my life, I find sharpened pencils,
tiny gifts with a beckoned note "begin", signed
by my muse, my lovers and my friends. In here I find
solitude, even as I fall into others arms. Artistry feeds off of
the warmth that we find in ourselves, not the sunlight:
we're independent, intellectual, warm-blooded and
in parchment and plastic bags, we're ready for the wind.
The summer sun can melt the strongest love, but
candy freezes and youth crumples, leaving us adolescent,
evanescent and incandescent -- we're glass blowers, we're
going out on our own, I - I'm not in love, but it's okay because
we're starting it all tonight.
