This poem is our story. Or is it our story?
My soul is at peace with having lost her.
Outside the rain falls, the leaves scatter in the wind,
And I dream of the kisses I could not have.
Another life. Life on an island, in the sun,
Where wine and music sharpen the senses.
Maybe I could have loved her there? Dancing,
The warm sun caressing her body like secret hands.
How could I not love her? But I know I don't love her.
I feel the distance increasing as her ship pulls away,
And the bars reappear and the island becomes a cage.
The horizon is clear; she is gone, and I feel the beauty in sadness.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 10:55 AM UTC
This poem is our story. Or is it our story?
My soul is at peace with having lost her.
Outside the rain falls, the leaves scatter in the wind,
And I dream of the kisses I could not have.
Another life. Life on an island, in the sun,
Where wine and music sharpen the senses.
Maybe I could have loved her there? Dancing,
The warm sun caressing her body like secret hands.
How could I not love her? But I know I don't love her.
I feel the distance increasing as her ship pulls away,
And the bars reappear and the island becomes a cage.
The horizon is clear; she is gone, and I feel the beauty in sadness.
