To say that this was how it was meant to be
would be ideal,
a glimpse of roses riotously blooming in hopes
of 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
but then you come along and prove me wrong
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
inhibitions have never really been able to hold me
so, leave behind your moments of shame
continue to shine behind begrudging clouds.
Everyday people urge us to be authentic and yet,
when we cut ourselves open for them to see
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
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