clementines & little red strings
clementine
this woman, she is a clementine,
a luminous trove tucked away in fall,
naturally stark against decayed brown.
she is the most lovely blend of tender
crimson and a melodic amber glow.
she is sour citrus placated with care:
a sentiment of warm drizzling rain or
the lilting chorus of barren trees.
this woman, she is a clementine,
and i live in the fall, just on the brink
of winter. she is the magic found in
october; for when she hugs you, you feel
the comforting embrace of a cool breeze,
or the velvety pull of a dreamy sleep,
promising vignettes of tomorrow’s sighs.
this woman, she is a clementine
but i am afflicted with the love of
sanguine strawberries locked in distant spring.
little red string
every time you smile and take my hand
i am warm with a heavy heart that stings-
still, i cannot think; i am as solid as sand.
i am high on your laugh, afraid to land,
afraid to face the feelings you bring,
every time you smile and take my hand.
i am partial to the night, where strands
of you flutter through, but by morning,
still, i cannot think; i am as solid as sand.
you coat everything in light, in grand
rivulets of thought, and my heart wrings
every time you smile and take my hand.
on the brink of apprehension i stand
longing to be with you, brave, free, on the wing.
still, i cannot think; i am as solid as sand.
yet, you choose to wait; you understand:
we are tied by a little red string.
every time you smile and take my hand,
still, i cannot think; i am as solid as sand.
days spent loving you
these are the days spent loving you:
making paper flowers
wishing you luck
laying awake for hours
feeling stuck
sharing a blanket in the cold
watching the sunlight kiss your hair
and spin straw into gold
tears to spare
smiling over morning coffee mugs
baking cookies & pie & bread
finding excuses for midday hugs
existential dread
dancing around the living room
daydreaming & reminiscing
praying to the moon
questioning & questioning & questioning
its a very fine line
between writing poems to fill up my shelf
or sharing a clementine,
and being myself
these are the days spent loving you.
