Sipping the air slowly
to savor the flavor;
rich with fertility
Leaves bursting into fiery hues
reminiscent of fireworks
trembling in the wind

A death knell
over green sceneries;
splotches of sunlight
seeping seamlessly between
newly naked branches,
easing fully unto checkered golden pools–
nature at its most beautiful,
before its most barren

It's nothing like you'd expect it to be. It's losing your breath and it's losing sleep. It's waiting. Love is being vulnerable. Love is still getting nervous a year later. It's whiskey and wine. Love is letting someone in on all the people who have ever left you out. Love is telling someone where it hurts and them telling you why. Love is forgiving. Love is trying harder to better your other half more than your own. Love is staying in bed all day. Love is the cold of a fan against the warmth of a body. Love is skin. Love is child-like and everything but. Love, the right kind, is passion-filled, and it's overwhelming. Love is feeling yourself submerge and being ready to go under. Love is heavy. It's also light. Love is having someone know where you're coming from. Love is loving their bed more than your own. Love is becoming fond of the sound of snoring and the look of glasses and the feeling of carrying on tradition. Love is taking care of others when you need taking care of the most. Love is staying quiet. It's being passive. It's also speaking up. Love is choosing the sunrise or the sunset. Love is making plans for the future and the anticipation of seeing them through. Love is resilient, and it doesn't forget. Love is a muscle memory. It has phases and there's always a story.
The best thing about love is the feeling.

What is to come? 

From a world where our children are given guns to play with, 

It’s not the squirting of water,or release of plastic bullets, it’s the message we shoot into their heads .

Triggering violence from adolescence.
Planting seeds of hate,
And watering them with spilled blood .

Waiting for the fruit to ripen, but it never does,

Now we have the taste of bitterness lingering on our mouths.

That bitterness stays on our tongues ,
So that when we speak, that’s all that comes out.

You see Somehow the fruit is never as sweet as when it’s forbidden.

Sugared by sin,

Borrowed from thy neighbor, because when it’s sin there’s always enough to go around.

What is to come?

From a world where we are told to express ourselves , but within the guidelines.

Told that the world is your canvas , but restricted to only the color white.

It isn’t as pure as it seems.

Underneath the white paint lies splashes of read , gushing from a black body.

There is no canvas, all we are given is a painted picture, of what perfect looks like.

So that we Erase anything that doesn’t fit the image. 

The slightest difference is reason for war.

Be it the quantity of melanin

Be it religion

Be it Gender.

What is to come?

Of a world that is only tolerable through the shade of intoxication .
Where pills serve as capsules of happiness 

We are our biggest enemy,

Our pain is self inflected.
If this is what it is ,to be human 

What is the cure?

the seas endless crescendo,
summer roses,
shadowy inks of the stars.

In the morning, we were woken by thunder,
a vicious gurgle vaulting across the sky.
We watched the rain fall outside from our bed,
the windows stippled with droplets,
the clattering of water on the roof
like women dancing in high heels.

I breathed in your smell, wanting to
inhale everything about you that morning,
wanting not to forget our trickle of minutes.
I brushed my feet against yours, under the sheets.
At one point, our hands touched, I knew your fingers.
That’s what I thought then. That I knew them.

Your khaki green shirt sleeping over a chair.
Design of our fingerprints on the half-full glass.
I caught a glimpse of your Atlantic eyes
as you turned. I kept my words private,
wanting, not wanting to stitch them together.
Last night, lightning. Now this.