The sky is purple, as I watch it set, and yet somehow I want more. A beauty so serene, and that’s what you are to me, everything I adore. Standing by the street light, your eyes glow, the rain falls, and I am everything. And when something feels right, hold me close, as the radio sings
Tell me, why does fear run up my spine? Why do I feel so uneasy when the stars align? The gray clouds begin to darken the seemingly endless sky, nothing will be right if we have to say goodbye. You make my heart skip a beat, standing on the dim lit street. You are the rush I’d catch if I were falling from the stars. The peace I find when we’re driving in your car. I worry too much that you won’t need me, and sometimes I feel like nobody sees me.
Am I just one uneventful dream? You want to be right, and I hope that I’m wrong, can’t we just let this go, instead of argue all night long?
You’re my evening clarity. The sensation of a full moon. I need you in your rarity, my energy sparkling rune. Our path doesn’t have to end, and I will follow you.
Leah Sparrow is an author who spends her free time writing poems and short stories. She is an aspiring copywriter. She’s had a passion for poetry since she was a child, and will forever be connected to it. She has a very busy life, she is married, and has three amazing children. She is looking forward to having writing become a fulfilling career. leahsparrow.wordpress.com
The beginnings are always there, forgotten and buried under the weight of our lives. Truths have been bruised by beaten insecurities. But buried beneath the depth of these riddles that we tie ourselves in, the simplicity of the way we began cuts sharp scores into the savage battleground.
As we teeter; Jenga-like totems of our former selves; reminders flood cauterised caches. Photocopies of what we were, what I was, what this was. Like a scene in the films where the reflection filled-mirror cracks, revealing the metaphorical tortured soul of the longing protagonist. We are at a turning point. The denouement. The third act.
Saviours need flashbacks. Remembering the start prevents the end. Rewinding the pain and the lies through the passion and the bodies pressed tight slow-kissed tender muscles flexed and intertwined. Something to cling to. Something to hold.
Rewinding. Rewinding to stolen moments and hidden feelings, but a different kind to now. Rewinding away from stolen feelings and hidden moments. Back to propped-up pillow-talk. To the soft-touch seconds where anger never entered the frame. Pulling the tape back into order. Resetting our fate. Reclaiming the narrative.