I found your old
notebook today.
Dust and
bittersweet nostalgia
(it was more bitter than sweet,
if I'm being honest)
covered it.
I flipped through
the pages, holding
each one for
a bit too long,
your words -
they gripped onto
my fingertips;
for so long -
I had tried and tried
to forget
your words.
I couldn't've told you why.
You were so goddamn
good them.
On the 33rd page,
there was
a blood stain,
from the paper cut
I received,
turning pages
a little too quickly.
Everything
was going by,
just a little too quickly.
That time you handed
your notebook to me,
and whispered,
"Read this, trust me."
That was enough;
I trusted you
long before you even
uttered the word, read.
'Dearest reader,
Today's a Wednesday, at least when I'm penning this in my notebook. The pages flutter about in the brisk wind, so please excuse my jumbled handwriting.
I love windy days. Watching the wind shake and rustle the trees and listening to it dance with the chimes, is simply therapeutic.
Let the leaves still holding on to the oak branches tell you their story. They are rattled by seemingly horrifying creatures, they are pushed and tugged by something they can't even see. Almost always is it to the point that they're about to snap off -
but they don't.
They hold on.
They preserver.
They endure.
For they know what's to come -
sunlight.
Endure so the sunlight may kiss your oh-so heavenly skin a million times.
Find your sunlight,
and allow your sunlight to find you.
Don't hide in the shade,
lurking just above the tree's roots
simply because it's easier.
Your sunlight, darling.
It'll come.'
I didn't think
of the slight sting
on my finger;
I didn't think
of the sharp laceration
tearing my heart -
neither mattered
anymore, they'd
been healed.
Your words
rehabititated me,
exterior, interior.
Staring at the
dark red mark,
I harshly rubbed
the tip of my index finger
alongside the
crisp, exhausted page.
Not a single drop
of blood
escaped.
Not one fucking drop.
I read that
passage
over and over.
You were always
so goddamn good
with words.
They'd frolic out
gently, wisely
assuaging any
unfinished, fractured
sentence;
stranded
without
a period
YOU ARE READING
Contrast
PoetryA collection of tragedies of sorts, of demons or angels (whatever you'd fancy to call them) that lurk and/or gleam in my mind. Written when the moon's dreary and the sun's near awakening. Obnoxiously metaphoric, subtly inspirational. © Jake Sullivan...
