I'm scared to say that I love
grey days with you.
The clouds throw themselves across the sky.
A blanket that can’t keep you warm.
Selfishly, I know that means you might need me.
You can hold my hand until the
circulation comes back to your fingers.
Or borrow my lighter for a smoke
if that eases the slight chill
that we bring each other.
I don’t mind too much when you hand it back
to me after you’re done, I get it.
You learn not to be so close to fire
after the first time.
Grey days are the best background
to showcase all of you,
but you’ll never know until I paint it.
The paleness of the mist holds your jaw
more perfectly than I can right now.
At least I get to see the colours
in your face this vividly.
Maybe I can tell you that instead.
You say your face hurts from smiling with me.
I wonder how long I can keep you
in pain like this. I choose to watch
your lips tell me all about the things you like.
As if I could tease out something more
than stray wisps of foggy breath.
It’s sadomasochism at best. I want to ask you about
grey days but the timing is not quite right yet.
For now, we can watch the houses
move from masterpiece to mediocre
as the light peeks down to see what we’re up to.
I wish I could skip forward to the time
where you tell me yourself. That you love
walking with me through frosted grass, arm in arm.
Seeing nothing, and no one but each other.
I know that, eventually, the clouds must part.
I wonder if you'll leave with them too.
I’d rather forget what the sun looks like,
so I hope that you love grey days how I do.
