The innocent.

I came to this place,
Full up with wide-eyed innocence
and naivety,
Thirst full for wonder and surprise,
Longing for a passion I could not word,
But, hoping it endure on my
skin.

I lingered in your arms,
on your tongue,
hanging on to every word you said,
like a knowing of
the last heartbeat.
Cocooned in some makeshift abode,
of a hope,
doomed.

This dance of sorts,
between us,
delicate but prodigious,
too short,
but seemingly eternal.

I came to this place,
With dreams of imagined,
comfort.
Walls constructed by the breadth
of your word,
your truth,
your promises,
unrealized.

I moved with a life/crawl,
Infantile, desolate
desperate.
For a hand,
an embrace,
a word.

Suns would rise,
and set.
Hundreds of times,
Clouds would move in
and out of our skies.
Still, I would never have those
spoken, promised things,
and, I did lose voices
and lives
and movement.

I became a still thing,
quiet,
struggling for a hold
of that forgotten innocence,
listening, looking for the
remnants of all that had ever been
me.

I came to this place,
Cradling hopes that
were willingly handed over,
to you.
Blind to your guile,
Enraptured by your smile,
your hold
your hand
your surety
your interminable glee.

I left this place,
heart,
hand,
empty.
Shattered, like sleep to a
thunderous night,
I left having to battle,
While, in me there was no fight.
Arms full up with
empty boxes
and loose foundations
of dreams.
A life to rebuild
with no means.

Jason Christopher Johnson
May 31, 2014