I got caught up in poetry.
Her eyes, her hazel, are poetry.
Her hair, swaying,
Languidly left me
With purpose,
The tussle
Of a clumsy
Serenade.
Since she left,
The guitar strings
Echo her questioning.
They move
As though
To flicker back
To her eyelids,
To sway a feeling
Back to hope,
To dreams,
Coming back
To me.
Cruel is a day
So calm
Without her.
Her soul is poetry.
She got me singing,
Covering
That Bic Runga song
Over and over,
Lulling the sun
To a blue blanket,
To sleep
One afternoon.
Yes, I miss her,
Clear as a sentence
Simply put,
A ballad.
But there is no fear
In love.
I convince myself.
Love is patient
Before it is kind.*
© 2015 J.S.P.
Edited.