Love is just a social construct. But we don't care at the moment, see;
The sky reminds us of good things. The rose-grey canvas sears it's pattern into the lids of eyes, hooded from exhaustion but not yet satisfied with all they've seen. Not yet wanting to close.
•It's is dark, but in the best of ways I suppose.•
The ground is covered in white, and the street lamps project their yellow tinge onto the kingdom they tower over. There's not a movement outside, and it seems to be quite a feat. We like it undisturbed anyway. It's ours to keep.
• it's okay, whoever heard of needing sleep when the beauty of this hour keeps us company?•
Love is just a social construct-- but you can't convince us of that when the sky is so breathtaking to behold.
When the night is so lovely to see.
When the world is so wonderful to meet.
When our hearts are so full of wonder, and our stomaches full of delightful butterflies we didn't eat.
I am not so good at poetry, as I am at believing in things that never existed in the first place. (Except for maybe in my mind)
But it's 3:00 am, and what a time it is to be alive.
YOU ARE READING
Incipient
PoesiaIN•CIP•I•ENT inˈsipēənt/ adjective •in an initial stage; beginning to happen or develop. •(of a person) developing into a specified type or role.
