I had told her about my pin badges -
It was that kind of intimacy.
I had written poems about her -
It was that kind of intimacy.
She returns with another present,
In fact, more than one,
Despite being a woman scorned -
It was that kind of intimacy.
One, a postcard, to return my gesture,
A memory we shared together -
It was that kind of intimacy.
Two, a pin, she travelled to find,
Searching to fix something that
Was never broken.
To her, this was a failure,
To me, it was
Our kind of intimacy.
And three, a notebook,
Because she knows what I love,
And that words lie deep inside of me,
Screaming to come out.
I write this to her to apologise
For being a fool, and to thank her
For her undying encouragement
And her endless inspiration
And her kind, warm words -
A beautiful friendship married
By the endless embers of
Written words -
Our kind of intimacy.
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 6:37 AM UTC
I had told her about my pin badges -
It was that kind of intimacy.
I had written poems about her -
It was that kind of intimacy.
She returns with another present,
In fact, more than one,
Despite being a woman scorned -
It was that kind of intimacy.
One, a postcard, to return my gesture,
A memory we shared together -
It was that kind of intimacy.
Two, a pin, she travelled to find,
Searching to fix something that
Was never broken.
To her, this was a failure,
To me, it was
Our kind of intimacy.
And three, a notebook,
Because she knows what I love,
And that words lie deep inside of me,
Screaming to come out.
I write this to her to apologise
For being a fool, and to thank her
For her undying encouragement
And her endless inspiration
And her kind, warm words -
A beautiful friendship married
By the endless embers of
Written words -
Our kind of intimacy.
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