I met a man.
Who confessed losing me would rip him apart.
Sooner had we met, butterflies would not have been dead and lonesome nights won't have survived.
I would be gazing at the luminaries without tears to fog my vision and
I would be glowing a thousand spaces more.
After all these years of misery, his words failed to lift me.
Why do doubts served this heart but long for his sight?
Haven't this heart conclude that there's none rather than grief in submitting a stranger?
~What if he's my Prayer?
~paodon
YOU ARE READING
The Afterthoughts
Poetry"The Afterthoughts", is a room where I bottle up my cursory thoughts, hidden from the realm I am existing and presenting it to the world where I yearn to fit (bookish world).
