Your arms around me – and for the first time in years, I feel like I am home.
M.K. STANDBYYour arms around me – and for the first time in years, I feel like I am home.
M.K. STANDBYDon’t give your heart to a poet – we see stories in a sentence and haunt you with our ink.
M.K. STANDBYThe smell of oak reminds me of summers spent sleeping under canvas, crackling fires and roasted coffee, the soft sound of guitar and voices in unison.
M.K. STANDBYAnd in the end-you didn’t deserve my thoughts or my ink.
M.K. STANDBYThe knot in a grain of wood, a frost covering sodden grass. Mornings warmed by the rising sun and brewing coffee – the vision of the poet.
M.K. STANDBY14 days, but I can’t change my sheets. Your scents still marks my pillow – and its all that I have left.
M.K. STANDBYLeaves dance on twisted arms, swaying on the breeze as though choreographed by unseen hands. Even the faithless could find themselves converts, by the smell of dampened earth and its blossoming rose.
M.K. STANDBYHollow intent and echoes affection, a call with no response. Who could trust a dormant heart – where apathy is shaped like love?
M.K. STANDBYLies sound so sweet when they are wrapped in velvet, a luxurious deception that charms my restless spirit – and I’m forever taken by beautiful things.
M.K. STANDBYIn the pale light of a setting sun – I’ll hold your hand and promise to love you more, on the days that you forget to love yourself.
M.K. STANDBYScribbled lines and crumpled pages – piles of rejection and resurrection. There will never be the right words to amend a lost goodbye.
M.K. STANDBYYour kisses fell on me like sand through an hourglass – a thousand tiny moments, for an eternity of stillness.
M.K. STANDBYWords hold little scope, for a love that stretches far beyond the limitations of language.
M.K. STANDBYThe bond of friendship as tight as any lover – where shoulders carry shared burden, a devotion unmatched by any other.
M.K. STANDBYDon’t waste your words on me, your face speaks in volumes that your breath could never reach.
M.K. STANDBYMaybe this time I choose ignorance, because giving began to feel like losing – repairing a house from rubble, and making sandcastles with the ash.
M.K. STANDBY