slippery, sunlit silence

Once, we met. 

My hair was up, and the world was coated with snow,

and you

 talked to me with wide blue eyes

and a slippery smile, easy to fall into.

Once, I heard you under the soft strings of a lullaby,

and I knew he was gone, no longer

digging his knives of indifference into my chest, no longer

spurring lovelorn dreams and longing poetry. 

Instead there was you,

flesh and blood and warmth, 

asking me questions, giving me

compliments I'd later cling to. 

I had three days

to sit under your fleeting glow,

until the lights went down and my questions

lingered. 

I still see you, almost every day, but only

for the half moment before the hallway masses

carry us each our own way, only enough time

to tell you hi and hear your laugh

as you say my name. 

I think we have the same mind sometimes,

even though I don't really know you, 

only what I've read and heard and scoured

the Internet for. 

I wonder if I'd like you

if I got to know you, if you'd haunt my dreams

the same way. I think so.

I want to talk to you

for long, sunlit hours

in a field somewhere, each moment turning to

memory, and feel all that once existed changing

shifting, morphing

in the air between us. I want to know love

as it sinks in between my teeth and pools in my skin,

and I want you to teach me.

But for now, I'll scavenge

for your eyes around every corner, waiting

for something I'm not sure will come.