I write poems about people in my head. I imagine Him, but he is not a person. He lives in my head, walking through my dreams and pounding through my head. He's like a distant memory that I only get fragments of, little things about him.
I also have a Her, who is stained glass, she is fragile. She lives in my head too. She makes me write poetry about her, even though I don't really know her beauty, only her colors, her sadness, her frustrations.
But She and He don't exist.
YOU ARE READING
the city
Poetryand no matter how much you water scorched grass and withering weeds, you will never make a garden re-grow -M.R c.2016
