untitled
He sang a song of love,
A forever yet to come.
A dream he painted with me as the only flower.
He told a tale,
One even I dared not dream,
Yet he wove it—with me, his one and only queen.
He took a rose and threw it away,
Said he didn’t need it,
For I was far more beautiful beyond measure.
And I believed.
He breathed,
And I blushed.
I fell, Deep into his eyes, oceans of blue.
He turned,
And I leaned,
Capturing his face, his smile, his frown,
Every fragment of him.
He sneezed,
And I oozed with the pain —
His was mine,
And his burdens, I was ready to bear.
Then roses bloomed again,
And a shadow of doubt crept in.
Was this all too good to be true?
So, I waited—
For a phone call?
A letter?
For the inevitable pain?
Seasons passed.
Winter came; he still loved.
Summer followed; his eyes held me the same.
' sigh'
Night fell,
And in his arms, he still held me.
l was scared.
I looked into his eyes,
His perfect silhouette, and l sank.
“A perfect man is always taken,” my mother had said.
So, I took my small bag,
Packed two dresses,
Closed the door.
The dream had to end.
I returned to my cave,
Far in the mountains,
Away from the lies they call love.
I lived there,
Staring at the stone walls,
Tossing, turning in the walls l trusted.
Believing I had left with dignity.
Yet something hollow ached inside,
The emptiness echoed,
loud enough my cave walls crumbled.
I descended the mountain,
And stumbled upon mourners.
They were sending off a man who loved.
A man who loved—
Through life, through death.
They lowered him into the ground.
They sank him into the earth,
And l remembered,
The summers and the winters.
I saw the face,
Of the man who loved till death.
He was handsome.
He had the silhouette of a king.
The king who sang a song,
A song of love.
A forever that was yet to come.
A forever l ran away from.
So, l sank,
And l cried, and regretted, and grieved.
Grieved to death.
And there we lay,
I as the Griever _ and He as the Lover.
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