Houses of snow.

Far along this island of sand
lies a muddy house of snow;
covered with angels and fireflies
and burgundy slippers meant for anyone passing through.
Here lies hope of a home void of normality
and perpetually glittered with the
presence of change.
It's never cold here, although usually it's expected.
Sometimes, though, from the perspective angle,
the angels resemble barrels of turpentine,
the fireflies submarine missiles
and a dying rose bush is what's left of the burgundy.
But again,
it's perspective.
It all sounds familiar, like a story so discrepantly trusted in youth.
As I get older I realize I can learn to see the beauty in such extremes
but this time I'd rather not.
I'd rather take this shitty situation and cry about it.
It's all wrong
and there's nothing I can do.
And in this nonsense
I find myself.
Next to you.
Seeing things not how they are,
but wishing only they were how I want them to be.
I never wanted a house of snow.
Just you.
Please don't go.