She is flowery words,
lush greenery and morning mist.
Hair like the clouds on the landscape that is her body.
Warm softness, comfortable silences.
Her sleepy eyes refuse to look away,
arms wrapped tight around my waist.
Laying on my shoulder,
quiet hums and nervous breakdowns,
running through the playground we've outgrown,
picking flowers and skipping stones.
I digress,
writing poetry about her,
putting off thinking about what I actually feel for her.
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
