a smell will be just a smell.
not the flesh of an epiphany.
nor the start of eulogies. of tributes to a lover's hair.
not rocks gathered in the throat of a grieving man.
just a smell.
songs will look faint.
& there would be no one
to tell us why gloomy symphonies
remind us of indigo skies.
dried leaves would just be dried leaves.
not a metaphor for withered love
nor broken hearts left to fallow.
just dried leaves.
& how would i be able to say
why i see clouds & miss a grandmother
i never met? the sea would just be the sea.
not an endless bank of sonnets. not evidence
that some kisses can last a lifetime.
just the sea.
lonely. endless. blue.
YOU ARE READING
Endless. Blue
Poesía"the day you first told me you loved me, it was hot, the sun picked at our skins like god was trying to kill us with a magnifying glass. . ."
