It is a longing
A desire, that I shouldn't
Speak of- but I must.
Echoes of you are
Reverberating inside of me
I cannot think of
Philosophy.
I think of us together
I think of you
Holding me,
Strong arms that cradle
Guitars and hold on
Tight, that walk dogs
And fight.
Rough around the edges;
And crumpled inside.
But I can't be shy
Anymore.
YOU ARE READING
Petrichor
PoetryWe grow old eventually {here are the waking thoughts that consume me}