His teeth.
That's the first thing I remember,
His teeth, his smile, his hands, his eyes, then nothing at all.
He was the rare one I'd kneel before,
He shook me so badly that the wars growing inside of me
Grew tired.
And bended under his words,
Like a flower under the wind's touch.
He howls,
He is aching,
But he can't tell where it hurts, and he can't stop howling,
He looks at the moon and howl,
And his teeth shine so bright
That you'd look at them and fear for your eyes,
For they shine as brights as stars.
And something grew towards him in me,
No, not love,
Not everything has to be about love.
More like an admiration,
For the courage he had,
For how brave he was,
For how he never hid his monsters and demons,
For how he bared his teeth,
And swallowed me whole.
YOU ARE READING
My loved ones; a journey.
Poetry“Perhaps one did not want to be loved, as much as to be understood” George Orwell.
