I keep telling myself that I must write it down, because it’ll fly away, it’ll walk away and I can’t live with that on my chest. I keep telling myself that as long as you’re around, I’ll be able to breathe. My lungs are messed up from bad habits, my heart is still puking on the carpet, a shot too many, but if I asked about yours and how many times the window was left open and how you managed to seal it shut before the hurricanes came by, I wonder if you know about your wonders. I wander into your wandering eyes and I've seen the poetry being written, a lady in white chained to her pen, a lady with a hole in her chest trying to sew her heart back together, stitch by stitch. Your intricacies are woven with precision, but some days you still crack. but some days you can’t find peace, but some days you’re in pieces. I know i’m sweet for your lungs, I know I won’t always be sad, but for you to see past my flaws and accept my tiny smile as nothing more and nothing less than beautiful.
I still question the way our souls still search for locked doors and how many times we dropped the key in the sewage to realize we left the spare in those dried tears on that white tee, but I’m sure our arms are tired of the burden of holding onto dead people, but I know it sucks to love such death. How the people we used to live with, they know how to open us up and they always loved to close us forever.
The sadness in your voice... can everyone hear it too? There’s a little girl still finding out why they left her on that bench, there’s still a little girl reading books and poetry to fill the void on her smile as if words could string together those little thin linings they couldn’t provide and I know the little girl still sees the little boy strapped to a magnet and it pulls people and it pushes them away; they say opposites attract, but if that’s the case; I think we’re like seasons.
Summer heat stretching down our palms and searching for answers in ink we can’t answer, but rather bleed.
Winter cold shoulders bearing all of our pain, the weight of the world and their inconsistencies will always remain, we’re Atlas and he loves us.
Spring cleaning skeleton closets, I know your joints are weary and your florals are damaged, but if people were flowers, I’d like to think we’re the rare ones that grow on mountaintops once every decade at that same spot. We won’t move, we won’t budge, we won’t die; forever waiting for mother nature’s final kiss.
Autumn.., Please.. Be gentle to the sea and never ask about me. i know it’s the end of times and sometimes the poetry is your phone falling on your face, that text message was a boulder and you’re a bit drowsy,
Sleep is what we need.
I know it hurts.
I know it hurts to be you.
But I love you.
I will love every bit of your seasonal changes.
And I do.