12.22.22
Above the sheets dismantled,
Shakespeare's sonnets devoured.
Shredded tapestry of vanity,
morning dew never felt this empty.
For beneath these undercovers
are two hearts riddled in illicit affairs.
Love's a potion made in bed,
hope's a fortune living in my head,
the wine's a truth I dare not believed,
but still, you are the crime I committed.
I am no Juliet a Montage
would behold on her deathbed.
Nor I am the starry night
Vincent Van Gogh has painted.
I would leave no memory of bliss,
I am no one but a glimpse of teases.
But I will be the nightmare dressed
like sweet dreams in your sleep,
the tequila shot you'd crave
in someone else's lips,
the long night of vivid mem'ries
under the moonlight's shade,
the living prayer you'd utter in between
your crisp curses and slumber state,
the brewed coffee in the
morning while you seek sanity,
and the warmth you'd yearn to feel
but all is just vanity.
Baby, I am no ancient poetries
Shakespeare has written.
Just a mere stranger you'd think
about when your eyes laid upon
your wedding ring.
I held no entitlement
nor I could demand any plea,
still, I will have you questioned
what it feels like to be free.
—georginariver, wedding ring
YOU ARE READING
Rhymes & Reasons
PoetryThe sun sets and the moon rises, but your absence stays still. August slips like a blink and winter should have been colder, but summer memories warm my endless nights. First love never lasts and so does us, but the way I love you at sixteen always...
