(n.) the impossibility to truly comprehend anything.
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Life isn't a kaleidoscope of lurid colors,
Or a delicate and congenial ballad of harmonies.
It isn't a slurry of fragrant and bountiful flavors,
Or a story where everyone is of congeniality.
But maybe I am biased,
Still living in that fragment of a memory.
One that I wished was just visualized.
Right where she had left me.
When you called at 4 pm,
With your harmonic voice in a moment of desultory,
Leaving me along with our congenial emblem,
Divulging me with all your goodbyes as depository.
Maybe I hadn't replied right,
As the only word I whispered was "Okay.",
Freely lending you the green light,
As all the summers drifted away.
Since maybe you didn't notice nor care,
The soft ding of the bell as I exited the shop,
A diminutive box containing a gift I hope you'd wear,
A golden ring that was replaced by my own teardrop.
YOU ARE READING
sonder
Poetry(poetry) / (n.) the realization that each random passerby is living a life a vivid and complex as your own. all i can say is, the world has a mind of its own, and this poetry book is a whole multitude away.
