today,
you asked me something
you said: "where is home?"
my ear resting
on your chest,
i heard the crashing waves
of oxygen splashing against
your lungs
saw the vermillion depths
of eyes i drowned in
over and over again
felt the roots of your arms
growing and twisting
grounding me,
felt the flora of your fingers
the roses pretty but thorned
pricking my skin
today, i finally answered you
i said: "wherever you are"
//after writing this in a notebook I stumbled on a similar poem by e. e. cummings. i recommend his works.
YOU ARE READING
evanescent.
Poetry❝if you see a pretty flower in a field, don't pick it//it will only wilt in your hand//love is not possesion❞ in which may picks her misfit poems of fleeting moments and bundles them in this never wilting bouquet.
