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.