I feel
electricity, when I’m near you.
My storm cloud,
I’m still waiting
for the rain

Sometimes it’s not about the colors
or the angle of the brush strokes,
the highs or lows of it

It’s about the portrait

It’s about the way it all comes together,
in the end

And all the world
will never see
the mountains that keep
you, from me

I want to be
a body
whose form to you is words,
and words alone.

And Here,
you forget my skin,
and the shape of me;
not a man
nor a woman,

but a voice

that speaks
only, to you.

An idea,
a whisper,
ruffling the pages
of your mind.