My fingers are cold,
the skin is dry, rough,
slippery,
still,
the absolute zero ice
of things
melt
in my hands.
I warm the Galaxy.
I try to grab onto ideas
and they trickle through my dreams
months later, shapeless.
When I can not do anything about it any more
and I have no plans for the future.
I try to hang onto people
and they slide along my love
invisible, unseen.
When I want to see the non-existent
and I don’t see the obvious.
I try to touch the solid colors
and they mix in between the creases
unclear, rebellious.
When I want to define the transient
and restrain inhuman forces.
My fingers are frozen now,
motionless,
numb,
The Galaxy is molten now,
flowing,
sore.