my balcony has never been safe.
the heavy breathe of Beirut clouded my space,
the neighbors and the dog and the endless chatter,
and your tiny little window across my room.
it felt relieving that neither mine nor your window was ever opened.
(we were in this together, side by side.)
and in the spring,
i saw your wedding dress;
a white gown sewed by ancient Gods history forgot of,
made of magic,
made of light, and suffering.
your face was a little puffy.
(yet as delicate as your hands in the winter.)
it feels threatening now that your window will never open.
it feels suffocating to see your dress hang there still.
Jun 27, 2019
Jun 27, 2019 at 6:51 AM UTC
my balcony has never been safe.
the heavy breathe of Beirut clouded my space,
the neighbors and the dog and the endless chatter,
and your tiny little window across my room.
it felt relieving that neither mine nor your window was ever opened.
(we were in this together, side by side.)
and in the spring,
i saw your wedding dress;
a white gown sewed by ancient Gods history forgot of,
made of magic,
made of light, and suffering.
your face was a little puffy.
(yet as delicate as your hands in the winter.)
it feels threatening now that your window will never open.
it feels suffocating to see your dress hang there still.
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