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Sav[i]our
The white winter mist encases my lungs, 
Like the smoke of my last cigarette did; 
Sweet, soothing, real. But like me, not bitter.
For the longest of times, I could not speak.
I could not sing, and then I could not laugh.
But now, I am no longer bitter. 
I sat to write a her a hundred words,
And in the end, wrote another thousand.
But not a single word was for her eyes.
Not a single word of anger or tears.
Instead I wrote hope and prosperity.
The nymph for which I went and sold my heart, 
Was left in a drawer, on a high shelf.
Under the scrutiny of raven hair, 
Of eyes tinted with a greyish blue hue,
I began penning my soul once again.
For were once I was cautious, I was warmed.
The cold ice of the long winter was gone,
And the sweet spring budded in November.
Though I cannot say what the future holds,
I can tell of what I am certain.
I hold her mind in such a high regard, 
An intellect of lustful rivalry.
And how beautiful she is, that seraph. 
Cast from the highest of heavenly hosts,
And dragged from the most tempting of the depths, 
She fascinates my mind, speeds up my heart, 
Intoxicates the very core of me.
Her petite frame on my poor, aching chest
Makes the finest hairs on me stand on end, 
As the cold hands of dead loves claw at me.
I could lay an age in that enthralling bed, 
Drunk from sweet wines, and the sound of her voice, 
Sharing and baring our minds, common ground.
But the future is not our's to decide, 
So let fate carry us, but on slow tides.

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