i want to write poetry like how some music sounds,
like the soft yet present low octave harmonies that are blurred
by the pedal,
and everything outside is blurred
by the falling rain,
and the crackling of
the fire matches the grass that sways in the breeze.
And the house is dark except for
the embers in the fireplace and
there’s a chill in the house that somehow reaches past the fabric of your sweater.
And you feel full of life but empty at the same time,
like the rich sad song of a slow saxophone,
crying over who you lost
and lost in who you shall soon find.
And you lay down and let yourself unwind,
Melt into this moment,
Just you, trapped in your thoughts,
But for the first time that’s not a bad thing.
The rain keeps falling and a small bird sings,
The fire doesn’t die and the piano plings.
And oh, being alive feels so wonderful and dark.