With him I bloom.
I'm autumn. I'm roses and daisies and fern leaves on sidewalks,
Looped around fences,
Piled on driveways.
I rise and grow into flawlessness, with laughter and tears as my aid.
He likes me when I bloom.
I am colour
and wonder
and dream
and reality at the same time. In the same space.
I am the colour of delight, of sadness,
of lust, of pain.
He likes me only when I bloom.
I am nobody on the first snow,
when cherry blossoms cascade down the pavement we used to walk on,
when the sun settles in June.
I barely shift into existence without his presence— how do I begin? I trickle into nothingness and into loneliness deep I fall in.
And I don't bloom without him.
Who am I?
Am I colour?
Am I a flower?
Am I a dream? All but nothing, it seems.
I lost myself; there's no one who'd help. He disappeared until he forgot me. He disappeared until I never bloomed again.
—
[16/05/18]
YOU ARE READING
Lost Chapters
PoesieI'm sorry I never wrote about you--you were my secret. - [A collection of thoughts I thought were good when I first thought of them: some of others.]
