The warm light of afternoon
brings a blur to our harsh wrinkles.
Like a line drawing drafted over and over
after several mistakes.
The blemishes of us bleed and clot like brush strokes
on the painting of a landscape
Fleeting blues, searing orange,
the vista of our bends and breaks.
We sit together, as close as we can,
my nose in the cavity of your neck.
My surplus in the caves you carry,
your tears, lakes in my overbite.
I'll hold your hand holding mine holding yours,
breathe in your breath out.
If nobody is whole you can be my left foot,
and I can be your right.
May 18, 2024
May 18, 2024 at 10:08 PM UTC
The warm light of afternoon
brings a blur to our harsh wrinkles.
Like a line drawing drafted over and over
after several mistakes.
The blemishes of us bleed and clot like brush strokes
on the painting of a landscape
Fleeting blues, searing orange,
the vista of our bends and breaks.
We sit together, as close as we can,
my nose in the cavity of your neck.
My surplus in the caves you carry,
your tears, lakes in my overbite.
I'll hold your hand holding mine holding yours,
breathe in your breath out.
If nobody is whole you can be my left foot,
and I can be your right.
This poem is about realising the things you thought were wrong about a person are what make you love them.
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