Often time we hear things
phantom, *What did you say?
Nothing.*
A whispering skyline
says, *hold me close; I feel
cold.* It is spring;
ice melted, but still
we feel the Winter’s
arms around us. And so,
we let this moment
unfold, speak the story
that it is supposed to tell
like prophecies written
on tabloids. Yes, we are
only following the wind’s
directions to hold
each other close.
We hear the leaves’ ruckus,
shaking branches as if feeling
the rush of blood of a romantic
scene in a movie. We never saw this
coming.
I held you tight, and with that,
we first heard friction and closeness
speak the words we’ve aching
to hear from each other. Dulcet,
like an ice cream melting, kissing
the pavement.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 1:24 PM UTC
Often time we hear things
phantom, *What did you say?
Nothing.*
A whispering skyline
says, *hold me close; I feel
cold.* It is spring;
ice melted, but still
we feel the Winter’s
arms around us. And so,
we let this moment
unfold, speak the story
that it is supposed to tell
like prophecies written
on tabloids. Yes, we are
only following the wind’s
directions to hold
each other close.
We hear the leaves’ ruckus,
shaking branches as if feeling
the rush of blood of a romantic
scene in a movie. We never saw this
coming.
I held you tight, and with that,
we first heard friction and closeness
speak the words we’ve aching
to hear from each other. Dulcet,
like an ice cream melting, kissing
the pavement.
Request permission to use this poem