1.19.17 S.P
The first hint of color in a dormant tree's awakening, the bitter winter just before the first touch of spring's warm glow. You are a soft spoken petal, your touch is docile.
Everyday at noon, junior year of high school; we'd sit. Facing each other, we'd traveled in our voices, speaking of faraway places that no small town girl would dare dream up.
While they plan to marry, window shopping on main street bridals; and forgetting who they are in this same old town. We know the strength of these welding bonds would tie us down a little too soon, and a distance too much from all that we set out for.
Long hours, and sleepless nights. Sloppy notebooks, neat handwriting. An undying drive towards music. Jotting down abstract notes on sheet paper, an unconventional, minimum wage, honor-roll teenage musical genius; at brink's limits.
You say its hard to put into words. You'd rather your work do its magic. Hearing you play on stage sounded a lot like that new song I never knew I'd needed to hear. i often find you spending your days in music shops, and old record stores, looking for something you've already got. You were always meant to soar with the eagles, and I will search for you in the skies.
YOU ARE READING
The Other Person Project
Poetrythe answer is yes. it will always be yes. you will always be the words. [(format) This originally started as a secret project I took on senior year, in high school. I wanted to write a poem about every single person in my class, eventually it becam...
