My eyes are blank,
two canvases waiting
for the brush-stroke
and my lover’s pallet.
I live in a studio
near a pond in winter,
where still waters run deep.
Frozen, half-asleep,
a work-in-progress,
dreaming of a palpable spring.
You glided through the night,
thick ice layers beneath you,
carrying a torch,
that red-hot fire.
Lips as smooth as daffodils,
you planted seeds,
but there was no water
for the fruition of your words.
Nothing grew.
Empty promises hung
like buds on trees.
It was a long month,
cold and no wonderland.
You tell me love is like season,
it comes and it goes.
I loved you like an eternal summer.
I am not that incurable winter
you speak of.
I am an Island,
with treasures buried
beneath the sand.
Dig deeper, my love,
and you may find a goldmine.
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