In late July,
As the cicadas breathe their
Incessant hum,
I am left in the sweet grass
Of a sweltering evening.
It's covered in hues of
azure and crimson-
Painted across the sky
In cosmic beauty as
I make out the delicate
Curve of a crescent moon.
In late july,
Watermelon is left on
My chapped lips
And white, stained shirt
That I've worn obsessively
As if I'll never wear it again-
as if I'll never see it again.
In late July,
I dwelt on the gentle scent
Of cloudbursts that seeped
Into my skeleton-
And stained its marrow bright red-
Same as the
Blood that dripped
Down my sun-swept face.
it gushed from my very being
Into the corners of my room,
Veiling it in a tidal wave,
Filling a void that
Fell open from ripped seams
holding back
a months worth
Of what was left.
In late July,
My room was empty.
Its contents bled from the walls
As the cicadas sang and
The gentle summer breeze
Kissed my hands.
In late July,
I came alive in a heap on the floor-
wet with a primal fear
as I heaved into the rough carpet.
In august,
I felt and listened and
listened some more
To the sweet whisper
Of that late summer
and its delicate promises—
Words that bled into the sound of
The broken frequencies
In the heat of my car.
The steering wheel burned my hands
As I wept into my seat,
But I still placed them back
right where it hurt.
YOU ARE READING
my poetry
Poetrythis is a collection of my poetry over the span of a few months. My newer works are better than the initial ones imo ‼️ I hope you enjoy it!! if you have any feedback, let me know.
