There was always the wind,
It surrounded her like a guard dog,
shifting and intensifying at her will.
And he,
He was jealous.
Jealous because even the wind,
Could get closer to her
Than he ever would.
The wind would caress her cheeks,
The way he never would,
It would run itself through her hair,
Trace patterns across her skin,
and make her smile,
The way he never would.
Oh, how cruel was the wind,
Making him wish for something that would never happen.
YOU ARE READING
Oleander-COMPLETED
PoetryALL RIGHTS RESERVED Her words were like oleander flowers, so delicate, like a gossamer spider string, but poisonous, like her scarred, despondent heart. *in other words, my crap poetry that is still really important to me*
