xlvii - the wind rises and blows autumn away but we bloom instead

136 17 131
                                    

[ roselin/auburn ]

the wind chimes hanging from
the i·v·ylined library windows
c l i n k like tinkling china
  l
    i
     n
       k
{of the i=n=k engraved in the
scent of vintage and old books}

the    wind    chimes   blow
these bookshelves glow
as autumn dies
            i fade
   beige p'o'e't'r'y in the s'k'y
the leaves wither and sigh
as   autumn   dies   i   jade

my fingers sprout iced vertigo
 over the pristine gloss of the
h
    o
          n
        e
                   y
              s
       u
   c
           k
              l   
        e
co[lo]red paper pa[nel] cover of
       this poetr[y] collection   

[ roselin/auburn ]

i smile when your eyes w i d e n
just looking at you makes me
less
   e  m  p  t  y
"hello," i say
leaning against the bookshelf
      your face only 2 ft away
on the other side

the song of the w i n  d chimes
cur/l/s through your charc/o/al
hair dissol/v/ing
        soaking
               into your
h/e/ather gray dark  
academia sweater         oh,
              you're perfect

your smile is  imbued with the
tender e f
      f l
       o r e s c e n c e
of forget-me-nots by a river of
 tender insomnia and suicide

a million supernovas 3XP10D3
in my soul,       "would you   
                 like to
{comets of        walk
ecstasy}           with me?

your smile is a slice of pale blue
moon: we didn't need words, we
just smiled and
            the message was
co nv ey ed

[ roselin/auburn ]

"where are we going?" i ask,
the brown, rusted november
l + e + a + v + e + s ( = i'll fall
from the tree one day)
d
  ang
      l
       ing
from your fervent eyes filled to
the brim with
          the epitome of
     empty

"i don't really know..."

"okay,      
let's just see where our minds
                  lead
               us,"
           the
late-autumn    
          b r e e z e   
           j a d e s
        my
  faded
       mind
       but your empty eyes
are what keeps me from fading
a   w      a           y

THE WHITE ROSE PAINTED WITH BLOODWhere stories live. Discover now