she was made of sunlight, drops like gossamer in her hair.
her smile blew a power grid for all the light it gave, her skin glowed.
daisies danced like flames inside her eyes, her words tasted of lemonade.
she was a perfect summertime angel, dancing in fields and tiptoeing in meadows and slipping through shadowed forests (she made them lighter, despite denials).
angels are supposed to have wings, she had empty spaces and scars draped in tulle.
skirts fell and danced around her, a constant waltz suspended between her slipping fingertips and the gentle green grass.
;
she, to juxtapose, was made of moonlight. stars stuck in her hair through tight braids which flipped as she ran.
her teeth were vials of moonlight, collected to shine only when she allowed her lips to peak upwards.
swirling mystery felled dashes of insecurity, awash in purples and blues and pinks — yellows once, perhaps? no more.
so many wanted so desperately to label her a nighttime devil, tie her to a title and leave her to rot with a bow slipping from her hair. she wondered, though, what made her such a devil. she did not stamp on grass like their summertime angel.
she longed for the feel of sunflowers plush in her fingertips, wished upon her countless stars to touch the sun's girl in her face, prove she was more than a precarious fantasy.
tulle spread over her in choppy waves, cut in jagged lines and overlapping angles — her scars were long and gaping, crisscross crisscross crisscross along her chest.
stardusted supernovas played in her thinner skirts, content forever miles from gentle grass and sunlit dances.
;
when they met, the world was set to end.
the seas — choppy and alive — met the clouds — cracking and falling and tripping over one another.
sky met earth in a clash of insubstantiality, blemished and opposing and unwilling.
the moon and sun met in a grove of unspoken whispers and to-be touches.
her wings were high behind her, golden and gleaming.
her chest was free of lines, tulle now incrementally more than a burden.
it seemed she cried sun drops, too, sparking and flaring when they brushed the grass.
pearlescent moonlight fell in thin streams; she did not move to brush it away.
to say that such an opposing pair could fall in love in such short time would be foolish, naive.
likewise, forming analogies and whistling metaphors to life would be fruitless for a story which could never happen.
humanity's summertime angel and nighttime devil met as the world caved and collapsed on itself.
- a. ; 8.11.21
YOU ARE READING
shoebox | a poetry collection
Poetry" 𝑖'𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒆𝒃𝒐𝒙 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝒃𝒆𝒅. . . " - a collection of poems written by yours truly - " . . . 𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝒅𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 . "
