Conditioned in clichés, you can no longer feel. I will hold on to the morning promises, to the neon lights and the gold that glitters in the other part of the city that you always tell me of. I make up tales of old lovers, stories in my head. I wallow in imagined sorrows. I pick myself apart, just to breathe. Summer is long gone.
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Someday. Someday I'll write about this evening, a breath of fresh air in this black hole of emptiness, an evening of you and me and Marchbanks, and how we all loved together for a while. I'll write about the foreign notes and unfamiliar syllables that he made us listen to. He is the music of a different land. But you are right, he's a kid. He breathed poetry into us, and we smelt summer once again. That is something I'll always be grateful for. He will be the other in our story, and if he can move our dead plot forward, let him. Somedays are bleak promises to make, but our summer was indispensable. There's nothing to be scared of.
YOU ARE READING
Arcadia
PoezieSpilled thoughts, letters from no one, stories of another time, another place. - || H.R. : #50 in Poetry ||
