In the late-night fever,
Love vanishes in the harshest of its demeanor,
And they call it angelic,
They call it kind,
But love itself has never seen the gates to paradise,
The flower that blooms near the riverbank of Tama,
The lights from the Tokyo tower shine on it,
And the flower dances in the wind to the projection of the city drama,
And to fly away with all its will,
You know I will,
When the sun comes down on to the two of us sitting quietly,
One foot apart from each other in the karaoke,
House on the street down the darkest alley,
I shall confess to you,
My love that I've held for years,
And I shall let you know,
All of my insecurities and fears,
Tell me a thing or two about love,
Many make mistakes because it is not simple enough,
Metaphors kill the lexicon in the breath of a Meyer lemon,
And my friends who believed in me don't anymore,
And to those who once made great promises of love to me don't exist anymore,
And to those who called me their friend but don't care anymore,
I'd like to say there is nothing I would ever thank you for,
I was a blooming flower,
But their stupid accusations burnt my castle,
And cut off my wings so I couldn't even fly,
What is the fun for you to kill off the main guy?
They say "Ignorance Is Bliss, My Friend",
And I am still sitting here in apathy, tying their lost, broken, and loose ends
But to you, I wasn't a distraction,
For you, I was your deepest sense of devotion and love,
And everything in between,
I kept you close to my heart,
And you treated me like I am your queen,
And the heartfelt midnight messages of ours,
They couldn't intercept,
They only know how to pull receipts,
They stumble when they see cash being used to cut their slips,
And if you ever leave me,
Which you always say you won't,
I want you to know that I'd still curse you in my dreams and make you mine,
So don't ever leave me in this hell of divine,
And our love, it's special,
It's real and it's fearless,
But we still fear for the life of our love,
As we stand beside each other bathed in the golden hour,
And once we leave,
There will be nothing left but the scent of a flower.
YOU ARE READING
SENSITIVE STRINGS
PoetryAugust is slipping through our hands like a half-sipped bottle of wine and this year for me has been the most Unhinged, deranged, yet somehow on some level chic and comforting. I found and discovered things I never thought I would and I lost some th...
