When the Wind Blew

I toppled over when the wind blew and I wasn't able to get up, leaving me lying here after I grew up.

I looked deep inside your painting of a picture of a moment in your head. Now it's in my head, but in a different setting. That's my heart.

I hurt when I look at you because I'm outside you and there's this thing between us; I think it's a wall. But not a real wall, but a glass wall, a glass that's so cleanly polished that it's so clear that you can't see it. It's a quarter of an inch thick, and you can see it if you look at it from the side.

I looked at you from the side and I saw something familiar that I'd never seen before and I forgot where I was. Then you told me to snap out of it, but I couldn't, because I just can't help myself. When I get carried away.

It isn't love and it isn't lust and I don't think it has to do with my hormones or my private parts, but just my head. I want you for my mother because I never had one and I figured out that that's why I'm so lonely all the time.

But if you held me, I'd cry.

And the plate glass between us and between us and the world and between the world and me: it keeps the heat in but it keeps the cold in, too. And I'm cold.

And tired.

But don't think that makes it okay for you to come any closer. Come closer to the edge with me because that's where I'm comfortable and it'd be fun to see you there or someone there with me because it gets pretty lonely.

So, maybe that is what it is and I am in love with you because I wouldn't know what it is if it were there and I saw it. But I don't know what to call it or what it would mean if you called it and I saw it and I knew it and we called it out together.

I don't think it would change.