I'm not someone
You'll write a poem about.
For I'm nothing like
The cashmere sweaters
You've clung to all your life.
My warmth to you
Is like the cold winter sun.
Too distant to make you feel
Anything for too long.
I might catch your eye
But your soul would easily skip mine.
And I'm not someone
You will rescue.
Rather, I'm the wreck
You will leave behind.
So when my heart breaks
Watching you look at me
In the rear view,
I will tell myself:
That maybe, this is the fate
Of a wildflower and a Vase.
Sep 24, 2020
Sep 24, 2020 at 3:37 PM UTC
I'm not someone
You'll write a poem about.
For I'm nothing like
The cashmere sweaters
You've clung to all your life.
My warmth to you
Is like the cold winter sun.
Too distant to make you feel
Anything for too long.
I might catch your eye
But your soul would easily skip mine.
And I'm not someone
You will rescue.
Rather, I'm the wreck
You will leave behind.
So when my heart breaks
Watching you look at me
In the rear view,
I will tell myself:
That maybe, this is the fate
Of a wildflower and a Vase.
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