Plant
She is thistles
A burr.
I am soft,
Not really a rose.
We grow
Alongside.
In different
Seasons.
The moon
Feeds us stories
When the sun is asleep.
Not Lovely
I am not lovely.
She can tell me I am.
I take it from her.
Like water.
It is essential
That she sees me
As something other
Than ordinary
Some call this love.
Parchment
My skin stains
Under heat
Turns sepia
I have written
The words for a novel
And feel them
When he is not here
She is mine
I write her on my face
So that the secret is known
She makes silence
For us to remember.
Text
Shorter words
Code even
Etherised
T O U
Flying between
Screens
We pretend
To be apart
Tear all
The words
That bind us
I want her
To be brave.
No comments:
Post a Comment