It's just an idea.

I am still he who paints with one eye shut. With a red light imposing on the artificial night, thought provokes unwillingness to comply. I feel this way of being is not doing us any good. All curtains aside, the colour of your eyes forces focal points to switch. The fall of your hair and the feel of your voice make for inward conversation over a common good view. You read. I hear the words as if written by some other being, and I watch your eyes. You smile. You cry. You show the world the real you. You show me, everything you hide from everyone else.
There are shapes in the ground, melancholy misconceptions and songs for you and me. There are voices that fly without source or destination. There is you in a photo frame, and there is me holding it to the wall. I place you high, above other images, and hold you in the sky like no one else would. Yet there is something that stops me from holding you close.