Sincerely, the person who you might even tolerate because the kilometres between us keep me blurry like the hues of the sunset.
Why drag the sun from its horizon-bed just to shine on a ten-year-old tombstone?
It's just that you said, "Remember when," and suddenly I was back in the white chair at the front of the classroom that always smelled of cardboard, the white with only one stain, the white chair next to her—
No, it's not you, really, your fingers prove the existence of perpetual motion as you snap polyboard to Mrs T's yells. You are a second moon in this null indigo sky, keep going.
How are you? Don't say, "Fine." and shrug it off as if your words are water and they will just evaporate in the sunlight anyway—Your words are fire, and they keep me warm, but I am Icarus and you are the Sun so don't expect me to draw nearer.
Dear the person who sat next to me in art today,
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A/N: Wow, my style has changed a lot.
YOU ARE READING
Anarchy
PuisiAnarchy. A swirl of topics: emotions, allusions to history, social issues... And somewhere in the maelstrom comes forth rhymes and prose. Note: If you can't be bothered to read all the poems (quite understandably), I've starred the better ones.
