My hopeful existence
No match for her void of existential dread
My starry eyes met hers
Empty.
I could give her flowers and petals and they would decay in her presence.
If I was made of fireflies then she was made of worms
If artistry dripped from my fingertips then apathy leaked out of hers
When I was a whirlwind of life she lay motionless
I was a whirlwind of dreams
And she was there to squash them
To shriek in horror when I became better.
When I moved forwards
She stayed put.
YOU ARE READING
Beatrice Jaymes~ a collection of work
Poetrypoetry personal essays snippets of stories that will never be written (looks better on scroll mode than paging)
