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One day, you’ll leave. And my heart will close like a weeping ipomoea never to open again.

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We are all marks of condensation on polished glass; steadily fading away.
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My dearest contradiction. You are soft and obliterating, like the moon’s glare upon a sinner.
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Enough of this. The next one I love will return my passion.
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Your sorrowful beauty can soften a stone, and dampen the eyes of a god.
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You are an ocean. I know your colors and the sound of your waves, but I’ll never see beneath your surface.
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Oh, you fool. You turned cold and stopped loving when the world needed it most.
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No matter what you’re told, there is honesty in passion and truth in messiness.
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The warmth is spring is near. It smells of hope and cheer. The budding bulbs of daffodils will end the endless fear.
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The sun has one lesson for us: learn to see the light on a rainy day.
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Branches bow, longing to reach the crisp, punctured leaves, their old shedded skin.
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If the wind itself turned to silk, singing ballads in my lungs, it couldn’t even hope to match the softness of your touch.
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We parted sadly, like children in the street on a pleasant june afternoon.
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