An unfinished dream

The tea will get colder
but really, will it matter?
And something might catch fire
but will we ever get tired
of gazing in so deep
into each other and finding all that we need...?

you know I live for the white winter breath
that is shaped like the sound of 'I love you'.


To some, the window sills are ruined
by those birds that go on cooing
and to me they are completed,
as long as you are willing
to sit beside it with me
and sail on the clouds in the sky we call our sea...


And why do we live in such filled up places,
with strange and frowning faces
of those who breathe up all our air
and step all over our invisible sand castles
but claim they saw them there.


It won't matter if we often don't remember
that if our shoes get untied, our steps will falter;
we may fall and still be unaware
because even the ground doesn't seem to care
anymore.


But suddenly this has turned into a very fake December,
fake but even colder.
the tea is ruined, the sills are dusty,
it doesn't seem like a home to the birds and me
-we only impatiently flutter
because not a hint of you is there...