11.18.17 E.S
He was rainy evenings. The way the sun would peak through the cloudy curtains, a gentle summer rain, in a week where every other day was a feral storm.
His oracular eyes, resembling coffee before the creamer descends to the surface. He reminded me of serene backlights lining a vacant patio under face-less constellations. His nature, composed, and he had a gentleness about him, so subtle; like a grain of sand on a creek, you'd just almost miss it.
He was of few words. He was art in a world where they were still learning colors. He was the poise in a city that never sleeps, residing in the midst of a chaotic world.
YOU ARE READING
The Other Person Project
Poetrythe answer is yes. it will always be yes. you will always be the words. [(format) This originally started as a secret project I took on senior year, in high school. I wanted to write a poem about every single person in my class, eventually it becam...
