Life taught me
that love isn't
a melted candy
on your tongue,
or the warm
sunshine that
kisses your skin.
Love is a broken
edge of the half
empty glass that
will split your
bottom lip into
two, and leave
it to bleed until
it turns blue.
Love is the dry
petals of a dead
rose, waiting to
suck the air from
your lungs, and
feel alive again.
But this, this you
already know.
because the night
you spoke to me,
your voice
resembled the
sound of an
overused violin
with loose
strings,
indicating the
agony your heart
carry.
so when you lied
by me on the wet
grass, I let my
hand curl around
yours, promising
you silently that
the day my love
for you blossoms,
I will not invite
you for a drink,
nor will I give
you roses.
I will stand under
your window at
midnight, holding
an evergreen leaf
to my lips, and
whistle my love,
because I ran
out of paper to
write you poems.
I will shout your
name over and
over again, till
you'll see
shooting stars
beginning the
moon to inscribe
our story on the
skies.
I will gather all
the stardust
and put it in a
jar, so when I
will sneak
through your
window, I'll
spatter it on
your face
before
whispering ;
'And this is the
magical side of
love that we
failed to see '.
YOU ARE READING
Dried petals
Poetry"and I find myself tucking your smile in the space that lies between every letter .for babe , if I can't keep you by my side ,then I'll lock you in each poem these hands write down ."_Aya Highest rank #43 in poetry on 23/7/2017 .
