I used to make stupid little excuses just to walk past you every day.
The scent of my cherry blossom spray lingered behind me enough to leave a trail of flowers at every passing footstep. Yours did the same; the musky perfume tickled at my lungs and resuscitated the butterflies that quivered within me. With each smell, our eyes followed, tracing the silhouettes of each other and drawing out fantasies we would soon fulfil.
Your eyes locked with the bandages on my arm, imagining a world in which you would ask me what was under them. But instead, you blushed as I asked you if we could keep each other company.
One day I made a stupid little excuse to hug you.
It would be one of the many times we would publicly exhibit anything between us, which would be followed by the cheeky hollerings from our coworkers and friends with every bit of each other that we touched. You said I was leaving, but I said we were just working.
You said, "I'll miss you." Your voice pitched, dripping with sweet, sweet honey.
My heart swelled like the sea did when it saw the moon. Like drawings in the sand that the waves would soon wash over, I remember how temporary it all was. We would soon have to let go, nothing but the honey of bittersweet goodbyes and the salt of my oceans to divide us.
But despite the fleeting fragments of love that, with its tendrils, began to entangle the both of us, I wished for a world that could only be filled with goodness that depended on the proximity of our hearts. It ached to imagine a world where you and I hadn't crossed paths, but there would soon be a world in which you and I would not cross each other again.
So as my eyebrows knotted together and my eyelids hid the fantasies beneath them, I told you, "I'll miss you too."
YOU ARE READING
Effusive Verbosity
PoetryI have trouble with being succinct, or rather lack being succinct at all. Poetry doesn't come naturally to me, not usually anyway. In fact, I'd rather indulge myself in writing a novel, but there are thoughts in my head and feelings in my heart that...
