Tracy A. Williams

He is a million differences,

a contradicting slow confusion.

He throws me love, too high

I jump; to catch it and feel illusion burn.

When I land he is hiding

behind a grey smoke screen

of dreams, living for fantasy.

He hands some to me, and I see him

staring through grey mist

he walks in a black garden

of white flowers and dark grass

Looks around him, seeing nothing

Calls to me to show him the

Colours.

I cannot see if he wants to see the

colours

Really.

I feel pain when his blood rises

high – never failing to burn him –

he is very careful to touch me.

He senses my movement in the garden now,

Blows me a cold blue kiss

I feel ice and frost on my lips

try to warm it, feel the pain hiss

wanting more and more of this

angel, now a devil

Now an old man, now a child.

I am mesmerised and hypnotised

falling down down in the garden

grey smoke dancing over me.

He will lay down and the grass turns green

still blowing cold kisses, colours coming to his

closed-eyes dream of wet cold tears

hard and soft on his cheek.

When he stands

the colours drain away

hot blood rushes through my veins.

I am terrified to let go of him

lest I should stand alone in the grey mist just as well.

Without him.

The rain falls hardly softly on his head

he blows cold kisses to the wind.

I run to catch them, his eyes see something, clear cut sharp tears

tell me so. He makes his choice

and turns away.

Play the game, play the game

“Walk out of the garden,” I say,

and his blood starts dripping insane.