after the heavy january rainfall, the skies were silent as the novel clouds spill over the mountains, they resembled long days of my brother pouring river water to clean his car. daffodils greeted, to relish as equal to the arrival of early spring. the more the subtle parallelism of all these to the curiously familiar days of sixteen, the more the memories still fresh in our minds.
you were that era.
we were skylarking during the total solar eclipse three years ago; back then, we didn't know we fell into time's hands, we could've escaped what was written on the palm of our hands to displace the silent nights we had to cope alone.
you were that era.
you believed my alter ego. my wicked grace — when all else failed to trust and guide me. you favoured me and kissed my rudeness kind.
safe and sound. we were happily safe and sound. on my geography book last page, your name was written in my old calligraphic handwriting and i used to stare at it until my handwriting became wobbly to my eyes. that book no longer exists but i still remember your name even after forgetting calligraphy because you were that era.
and how can we ever forget your natural sense of humour? your humour became a shelter during all the four seasons. sometimes it was dry but it didn't stop the perennial plants to grow. sometimes it was dark but it didn't cease the light in this world. you see, i want to tell you that you were more than a shelter but how could i ever?
when you were only an era.
YOU ARE READING
kalopsia
Poetry[ka-lop-se-a] Greek (n.) the delusion of things being more beautiful than they really are.
