the breeze kicks at our door
as fresh paint holds my fingers together,
like your arms held me last night.
nothing matters when you're nearby.
despite the mess of colors smeared across the porch,
the future seems bright and smoothly set in front of us.
our laughter softens, mimicking the colors on the horizon.
your kiss on my cheek reminds me of bittersweet truths,
like even though I finally have you,
we're terrible at painting houses.
YOU ARE READING
deep || poetry
Poesia" A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. " -Robert Frost
