Patience

Patience is a puddle in your eyes. Each day you look upon me within foreign realms of happiness; insomuch you adeptly caress satin wings sprouting from my back allowing lips of yours to feed the desire which separates our souls, poorly decorated in circumstance. Never have I imagined losing a man within my line of sight so intently that I spy nothing but his reflection in the light while his image take hostage of my own and in common reflection, whether it be in the eye of another or a passing mirror, his face is the one I see. Enraged by passion untouched, unmoved and leashed, preconceived imprisonment of a foul kind—absolute freedom by day, thoughts born and abused as night loiters beyond the soiled horizon, shooting the moon high in the sky I am caught in an awkward, velvet captive. Crouched in such a way, reminiscent of fetal days, neglecting the space provided to stand and move; it is my choice to decrease comfort and starve-alive with you. I bathe in your eyes and soak in the warmth of your spirit; it is your patience which drives me, how willing you are to restrain from an ill-fated fantasy that would sacrifice a lifetime of mutual serenity which is found in the sea of everything we share.