There is a warmth in the air Blanketing all I have lost, The same way that the sun clings to the winter-nested grass. There is a man who took part in that, Diligently, and at no cost. He is the sun, as he is coaxing me back.
Buried in April, the peak of the spring, I wilted as my friends kept growing. But he, unwavering, masked in a dream, Smoothed every wound and patched the unwoven seams.
Above the waves was a saving grace, And forever in debt, I will celebrate the sun, I will wait. For each day I hope to somehow compensate for that heroism, The paperweight, The reasoning behind every stanza and each decision that I make.
I am not a tree with my roots in the ground. I am a flower bed Where he plants roses With each kiss that he plants on my head. Defrosted, that bitterness melts beneath his light, And his iridescence never loses its allure. The longer I am with him The more I am sure.
I am not certain about much, But I am sure that he has given a new meaning to the spring, To its unbecoming, and the wreckage it usually brings. I know now That there was always something beyond what I once implored And I am sure That he is what I was always waiting for.
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