Perhaps they'll just call me paranoid
for at the age of death, I shed.
I am not tired of opening her arms
and hugging and letting our hearts collide and feeling her warmth.
Although, my eyes can't hold back the flow
when every morning she disremembers her own.
Her touch is my Alzheimers to bad times,
and she smiles frequently when we talk about the past of mine.
I crave for the forgotten love which shall be inside her,
but I'm grateful to God, for 'us', I remember.
Sometimes I shed tears which warms my face
as I end my day next to her, with her embrace.
And again, at times, I think that she remembers everything
when she confesses to me of love like the first time we meet.
.
.
YOU ARE READING
IDIOMATIC
PoetryI have some things in my mind that I still don't know about. Sometimes they just come out as words through a pen on a page (or in my notes app too). But yeah, if you, by a needle in a hay chance, have read the (deleted)poem book I wrote before this...
