Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Dec 2019
VII
the old gravel pit
the breathing of the chimneys
visible on the horizon where the next big city lies dormant
the rustling of the leaves under my feet
and the streaks on the lake
on its bluish silver ground
- the existence

3 black birds are watching me roaming
where to?
as black as his hair
the soft strands caressing his pale face
the hair I want to sink into like in an ocean

the last light of the sun's rays touches my face once more
so tender, so vulnerable
like the skin of his fingertips

remotely I hear the laughter of the children on the swings
that's all that is left
everything seems to be asleep
the ferns
gentle
like his soft pink lips on my skin

the smell of firewood and smoke
damp grass and cold icy air
it is his scent that is enveloping me like a warm blanket
my life preserver in rough waters

this is my hometown
the place where I should feel safe and sound
that touches my heart

but all I want
is a tiny pin on a map
escaping
into his embrace
in Brooklyn Heights
julie
Written by
julie
235
   Crow
Please log in to view and add comments on poems