the slow art of breathing bitter

My Favorite Beginning of Our New End

Let me photograph us in 

the swaying branches and summer light.

How the low wind dances along

the curves of your red lips,

And the gold rush of the sun

ignites on your skin.

Let me snap the shivering metaphor

of how close you're to me —

A braided metaphor consecrated in

blood and fevered beauty.

'Cause I don't want us to get older, darling.

This might be the last time of us

together in the grey-green woods,

humming folk songs and kissing in the yellow light.

The dark wine spills from your limbs

and soaks our clothes; 

We're too young to face our fears —

and I don't want this to end in the blue of winter.

So let me photograph tender impossibilities

and tragic euphoria, staining our hearts

in pitch-black letters of mundane love.

How reckless that things would not be the same

the next time the red of the sun burns the horizon;

Our fingers weave another firefly glow —

my favorite folk song.

-autumn emeralds fade away in the wastelands of broken reds

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A/N: I wanted this to be the last poem of my collection, but self-control isn't my forte. A quick vote, please? Thanks! 

©March 19, 2023. Sreeja Naskar