Mornings stretch on sun-baked asphalt in long bumpy bus rides, home is still a long way to come. Your eyes are gentle, soft like sudden rain, familiar like the familiarity from another life lived and forgotten.
You asked me to write about you, so I did. And I left without a look back, I was never good at goodbyes. You can have the bus to yourself, enfolded and treasured under a kiss. And I hope only to never see you again, because, you see, we fall in love only once, on late Monday mornings wilting away to the bloom of paper flowers in the middle of a scorching spring.
YOU ARE READING
Arcadia
PoetrySpilled thoughts, letters from no one, stories of another time, another place. - || H.R. : #50 in Poetry ||
