I observe, so I can dream.

It's cold, you are with me,

or so the air tells me

as it carries your fragrance;

or so your words claim,

those few that you gift me

in between all this distance.

You are here while you are silent,

while I love you,

while I observe from afar, with a breath of hope;

but it is cold: my words freeze,

and although you are not that far away

I feel cold deep within my soul.

It's cold,

but I continue

to love you

throughout the days,

and the hells of my nights

and the loneliness of the wee hours;

with what is left of my heart,

with what remains of my reasoning,

with what I have left over of foolishness...

[And I will continue like this,

because I can't find

nor can I neither accept nor conceive

some other shelter

A poem about how art makes me feel.