its destination is oblivion,
yet it's genesis began with the simple thought, "It's not that hot."
It's demise was brought about by the foolish notion
that it wouldn't get any hotter than what it was moments ago.
You've underestimated me.
You made light of the fact that ice, when placed in certain places
could actually make you...hotter.
You blew caution to the wind when I told you what I was going to do,
but pleasantly surprised when I did it.
Glisten. That's what this temperature does to you.
Darkness envelopes us, but I can feel you; you're wet.
My mind touches you, before my hand does.
I've planted uncertainty in your mind,
so even reality feels like make believe.
I've made you believe.
With eyes shut wide your under the assumption that heat you feel inside,
is due to whats outside.
It's summer in December.
Humidity makes walls drip,
call me your weatherman.
The forecast of being partly hazy,
foretold of the possibility that you are fully alone.
Thoughts have a mind of their own
and when they are slowly whispered in your ear
they take over yours, making you still feel me....days later.
Even the thought of me
lingers
like the last summer, the last touch, the last insertion.
Inception.
No comments:
Post a Comment