·˚ ༘ ➳〔It was her, it was her for a while〕 ࿐ ࿔:🖇
I hate these spring girls with their burning eyes
Because they never stay; they are the april of lies,
Loving and storming and tearing apart; their air fills
My dusty lungs — they are better than any pills —
But no other season of the year leaves me this breathless
And this thankful for a crime committed with such kindness.
I love you, she would say
How long until she'll decide to go away, to travel
To a love of honey and sun, mine is just ice and gravel...
I can only touch a corner of her heart with the icy tips
Of my thumbs, and I don't think that's a touch she'd miss,
But I'd still trace her jaw, sketching her out in my memory,
A faint painting that I can be the only one to see.
All I know is how to flee.
She'd just smile, cheerfully like she always does,
(Almost like she tries to put my torment to a pause)
And she'd ask where. Where to flee? A beach, the woods?
She'd put up both of our vintage jacket's hoods
Then pull me outside by my hand to show me the world,
And how big it is, and it is almost like the rain had slowed.
You can try to love me, I don't mind.
She's not the patient kind, but the way she looks,
The look that she gives only to me has got me on hooks,
And I am so terrified that she could once leave
Disappointed, disgruntled of what she found in her Eve
Because I can't be what she needs, I'm no Aphrodite,
Everything I am is void, it is nothing, it is just me.
No deep meanings.
Let us start again because in the way the wind blows
I can still sometimes sense all your ups and lows,
And when sometimes the sun manages to shine
I still like to sometimes think of you for a while.
So, I guess, what I'm trying to ask for is time, the absence of when,
But I'm willing to let you try to teach me to breathe again.
YOU ARE READING
Of sweet and sour - poetry book
Poetry...and maybe sometimes words and paper are enough to heal a wounded heart
