Amidst the last illusions of mist beneath a November sky

To say that this was how it was meant to be
would be ideal,
a glimpse of roses riotously blooming in hopes
appearing indigenous–
I write down words that beg to be kissed,
to be read in whispers
knowing the world is cruel
and acquisitive.

Close the door, lest storm washes away emotions
like glowing leaves outside,
it seems to me that love is nothing more than a metaphor
wasted nowadays,
but then you come along and prove me wrong
as certain
as vigour that returns to trees in Spring.

Needless to say, I enjoy silence, hovering in the air
comfortably around us,
you’ll find I am sugar rush that helps put things
in perspective,
inhibitions have never really been able to hold me

so, leave behind your moments of shame
as stars
continue to shine behind begrudging clouds.

Everyday people urge us to be authentic and yet,
when we cut ourselves open for them to see
they flee–
I am growing accustomed to the ones who are deep,
so, I am learning to navigate the ones
who are trivial instead–

you are an orange sunset amidst smoke
and chaos,
desiring my wit and charm in matters austere–

to say that this was how it was meant to be would be ideal.


Photo credits: Michal Jasiewicz, Watercolor Painting, Pinterest

Posted for Midweek Motif @ Poets United