camera, sign, chandelier

These are the mementos we cannot capture in song or on paper. We cannot hold their essence within a melody or ink, bronze or clay; no camera can shutter this place between us. This chance to know delirium and dust. If I am so grateful to have "found" you, then why do I feel so "lost in your eyes"? Its the endless deeps, oblivions, oblivious, and time may tell that I have known your ink stained hands and mason jars with willows, the loveliest of leaves, the boldest of lines, the softest of curves; the way you threw my red flannel shirt over the lamp, a mini-chandelier for us to swing from, while the snow fell as frozen stars in the warm glows of the streetlights, but then everything has a warmth and a glow melting the icy fear that grips the heart; the inevitable urge to foresee the future is dangerous especially when the moon becomes a sliver yet returns full bodied, red as Luna's blue-blood cycle.
This maybe one that I tear off the page, fold up and put in your worry jar. I need not fear, for in the dream you cut his hands off, not to cause pain but to help him heal. Aren't we all on an endless expedition, looking for signs – between the stars and in the rising stems from the rich soil, the roots that hold them in place as they push down, through the ground, searching for nourishment.