You told me,
that my hands are always cold.
Especially my fingertips.
I blamed it on the weather
and
the foggy air of moody London,
but we both knew,
this is just how I am.
Icy.
You tried
to cunningly defrost my soul
and make my thoughts
all thawed and leaking water,
but
all it did,
was built defences higher
and suddenly
all doors got shut.
A heavy weight of a padlock.
You questioned everything
that popped into your head –
sincerity of my moving lips,
the truthfulness in my eyes,
the husky voice
and my motives.
True or false.
I played with strands of my hair,
to compliment
my misleading nervous answers,
while your orders
got more strict by a second,
creating waves of insecurity.
We played a game,
all back and forth,
tossing each others hearts
into the air.
Sky-high.
In the end,
there were only words left to play with,
so this is why I write.
Like this.
– Chatty Owl –
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