Wildes Writing

Tim Wildes

Your eyes look like little pieces of glass; in each one I see the colors of worlds

not my own.

They are framed by your guise and cognizant of your dreams.

Your tongue tastes like my last cigarette and your skin is warm like fresh coffee.

Your being is an autumnal breeze-

its presence changes the environment,

yours and mine.

You intoxicate me with the bittersweetness of time’s passing;

I can’t look at the clock

because my eyes are affixed to each shard

you offer me.