Blank Canvas

the mystery of the boy at the train station.

I'm sat on a crisp winter's morning,
watching the swirls of my breath in the air,
dance flimisly with the wind,
and bow gracefully out of existence.

The cold of the air is a knife edge,
and it's cutting deep into my hands.
I try to slip them safely into my sleeves,
but the glitter of the frost is sly,
and creeps up my arm.

As if from nowhere- a shadow appears,
eclipsing the shimmers on the earth.
It's him.
I know every outline off by heart,
before I trace them with my fingertips.

I know the hue of his skin is pale,
a little rosey his cheeks if he ran,
know his hair is dark like chocolate,
flowing and silky. But I melt.

I feel his weight next to me.
The breeze whips up his scent,
into a froth of lust and desire,
lapping at my shores.

A sudden glow warms the empty space between us-
There are great distances between him and I.
Gaps and cracks and holes.
A blank, bare and unblemished canvas.

The vibrations of a spark fill my lungs,
and I part my mouth,
Only to breath,
a sigh of mystery.