Julia Stone's This Love
brings panic, a scrambling and nostalgia for a time
barely dead.
rising above the smog to the pristine crispness of your face and the firmness of your jaw
I reach for your soul
my own salvation
and turn off the lights to my hope.
maybe it's not mine after all.
maybe I'm hurting us anew.
from dark to light to dark again
my spirit fluctuates
dims and brightens with the sound of your voice
over the miles.
exhaustion is the plain unromantic truth
and sustainability is a mirage.
tsunami and drought
butterflies and grubs
mt. everest and the grand canyon
water and clay.
crushing vascillations,
doubt reproducing like
cell division.
rising above the smog to the pristine crispness of your face and the firmness of your jaw
I reach for your soul
my own salvation
and turn off the lights to my hope.
maybe it's not mine after all.
maybe I'm hurting us anew.