I thought it would be grand–
like the fire that once conquered my childhood neighborhood
with a touch that burns bright red:
warm yet scalding
beautiful yet damaging
passionate but with a kiss
that leaves nothing behind
but charred flesh
and ashes.
I thought it would be majestic–
like the tempest that made us fear for our loved ones' lives,
with its gray wind and endless mourning skies:
alive but violent
powerful but brutal
emotional but with a blow
that crushes even the sturdiest
and hardest structure
around.
I thought it would be striking–
like the fingers of death beckoning a man on his last moments...
...but...
But it's simple, really...
...like the ember that crackles on the hearth in winter,
warm as your fingertips on my face
while my head is on your lap
and my heart is on my sleeve
and nothing else burns but your stare
and nothing else hurts but the distant thought
of you being away.
...like the gentle drizzle in a June afternoon,
while you cook for dinner and I mess around,
popping ingredients in my mouth,
La vie en rose playing in the background.
You took my hand and we danced
even though we were bad at it,
hand on my waist,
my head on your shoulder.
There was no violent wind but my breath down your neck,
no other disaster aside from the burnt dinner
that we've forgotten as we made love
on the counter.
...like a sleep, it happens in its own accord,
gently, little by little,
a temporary refuge to the darkness and dreams,
yet still with a promise of waking up to colors tomorrow.
08/16/22
YOU ARE READING
The Theater
Poetry"The world is our stage and we are its actors, destined to play different roles. May it be a princess, a peasant, a hero, a traitor, every part needs its own soul. " The Theater is a collection of poems, examining different lives and love through th...
