We used to be so honest,
so pure,
so oblivious
and full of life.

Our love became the definition of sunrise awes,
the sweet smell of fresh rain,
the echo of a child's laugh and
the first flight of a newborn bird.

We became the melancholy
of naive endeavours
wrapped in raw emotions.
Our love was real; factual, in fact and

I refuse to believe any less.
But that has all dissolved now;
disintegrated with the wind,
set with the sun,

thundered the clouds
with fearful flashes of dangerous light
and whimpered every soul
who has lost something they've loved.

We are no longer built on sweet smiles
or tempted impulses;
we are the epitome of sulking stares
and avoiding glances.

We are civil, but we are also tense.
We are the tightness of our muscles
in this predicament of uncertainty.
And that is what we've become:

completely and utterly uncertain,

which is quite contradictory
to the confidence of our emotions
trailing back to the months before.
We are touch, but be are also sight and scent.

We are all the senses masked by sweet pride.
We are a tempest of emotions
dancing to the rhythm
of our eternally thriving hearts.

And though we are inevitably wrong,
moving to different beats of similar drums,
our recital of pirouettes has managed
to create something beautiful.

- g.d.