I've written in many notes about this already.
But last night I felt it again so
I'll write again of the butterflies I felt in my throat.
I was ready to write with blood
on a page already full of ink,
wrote with poems,
in languages I did not understand
yet, in pink;
Verses that my love inspired,
verses of stars and moon.
Lines that take me back to her
again in a daydream after noon.
The memories of the night before
is like the crying of a baby we birthed.
Kisses that didn't touch,
painful beating of my heart,
loving that I've missed so much.
I cried without tears,
finally not because of the blues,
because she showered me again with the love we deserted.
YOU ARE READING
IDIOMATIC
PoetryI have some things in my mind that I still don't know about. Sometimes they just come out as words through a pen on a page (or in my notes app too). But yeah, if you, by a needle in a hay chance, have read the (deleted)poem book I wrote before this...
