Two youths dance around a midnight fire,
With premonitions whipping around the wind.
She holds his hand in her heart on a park swing,
As his eyes grow with boyhood wonder of being loved.
Autumn leaves picked up their ways in those winds.
Bus stop romance ticked the days by,
Making life a little lovelier,
While making going to class something worth doing.
Cold chain swings marked the days of getting older,
With the rust creeping across with time.
No one sat by fires with quivering lips
Or dangling hair or burning curiosities.
Eventually, time and neighbors had forgotten
About the Westwood Park Lovers
As they had drifted away from one another.
Nothing violent, nothing mean, nothing but a parting of ways.
I find it sad to say:
today i found one of the notes you gave me in that park.
there's still traces of pink lipstick on it.
i still remember the last look you gave me;
i can still see your lips mouthing
words i've long since forgotten.
Now all I'm stuck with is my day job, my pen, and my thoughts.
(And I never wanted to be this alone.)
YOU ARE READING
RIVER
PoetryA self-guided tour through childhood, innocence, love, and the loss of it all. Feel what you want, it's all butterfly gardens from here anyways. Just remember that you're not alone here. Started January 13th, 2019. Updating weekly, sometimes more.
