I sipped the hot tea in my lips.
The reaction of my insides from the tea when it touched my stomach was glorious. A feeling of four seasons just passed right in front of my eyes in just a minute, a cycle of a flower from it's peak to its death, residing to be reborn - the spark I felt when my eyes met yours.
Then I got to sit in the couch.
A smile on my face bloomed like spring as I sit in front of the window where the sun's rays hit my eyes. In the 21st century, you can't barely hear a playlist from the 1920s being played. Except for me. I enjoyed it. It gives me comfort, love, and nostalgia - my definition of home.
"I hope I die in this kind of feeling," I sipped the remaining tea, "With our memories, with you my favorite home."
And she held my hand. The wind told me.
YOU ARE READING
Tell Me I'm Not Crazy
PoetryTo the one who made me tingle my skin with such excitement, who made me feel like a rocket in the sky trying to reach it to my limits, who made me experience summer in winter, who made my mind wander the night sky and find its way back to you. To th...
