Printemps

everything's always about him. I wish I could write a poem that wasn't.

I yearn for the springtime;

Where the trees are green and fertile,

And I’m reminded so bluntly of our meadow.

 

It didn’t really exist, I know.

But the feeling did, and that’s what I cling to.

I cling to your joyful voice and warm chocolate fondue eyes.

 

Your olive toned skin and dark-almost black-hair,

I remember oozing at your touch, turning into hot liquid-

After your kisses.

 

The rough playfulness reminds me of the lukewarm spring rain

And thunder crashing into me, lightning enlightening me.

I could spend many “forevers” in your arms.

                                    *~*~*

Where is my springtime? He’s lost somewhere in late summer.

The day where I forced myself to move on into autumn and winter

And left him behind.

Author's Note

...