Friday, May 9

the very words that pour out of you in all their raw honesty
are the same ones that i once denied
time has finally crept up on us
and i seem to have no prose, no script, no lullaby
only sore fingers grasping yours,
only silent trust and unabashed gratitude

grow on me,
like wild flowers
i am watching storms without you
i am standing alone, your shadow by my side
minutes are seconds, that i watch go by
and you are the calm after the war

No comments:

Post a Comment