Spun

I miss the way your fingernails
actually seized the sunshine,
for suddenly whenever I
begin to write,
I am meshed in grottos.

My words constrict- I am still
cold and thirsty. How many
hours have driven by at the
speed of silence,
for were you ever capable
of all I asked?

Where has the ocean
opened? Because I cannot
find the carvings we made
while sprouting feet
and walking on waves.

These caves just echo back.
I see no earth nor signs of
blue waters or perfumed books.

My hands stretch out...
only to grab prizes like love
affairs you consume as your
fantasy's deepest hunger.

I thought the journey
to the center of your heart
would be something like
"The Great Gatsby",
for I dreamed the past was
a gateway to desire;
how foolishly I was decoyed
when I realized my love
for you was unable to
function.

You were careless, a fool's
hand brush; you had the
voice of money itself,
and there is no clarity there
that can untangle me.

*written November 5, 2012 at 8:39 pm.
a freewrite, kind of a jumble, I haven't written at all this week so I thought I'd give this a try. Thanks :) Critique welcomed