I realized something today.
Flicking through old photographs,
Got a paper cut,
And it hurt quite bad.
It bled alot.
Drip drip dripped
Onto your face.
I tried to wipe it away.
Quickly, so damage couldn't be made.
Disregarded my own pain,
As long as the photograph was okay.
My efforts were futile.
Your face was blurred and smudged.
I can't remember what it looks like now.
There's blood everywhere too,
On my pillow,
On my hand.
On my floor,
On my heart.
You still haunt me,
Empty corridors
Filled with your cologne.
Reflections of smiles,
That I'll see no more.
But I guess that all okay.
As long as I have my trusty photograph at hand.
YOU ARE READING
The Wild Flowers
PoetryLife is so unpredictable. You never know what the real meaning of something is. So I hope you have fun trying to find the real meaning of all of these. After all, who doesn't love deciphering late night poetry.
