Letting Go
He writes poetry about him in the depths of the early morning,
I read over it,
I'm standing at the door where they greeted each other,
I feel every sensation he did as I touch the pages.
When he speaks of him,
I can still see the bright hues he once saw months ago
when things were still good
the solid concrete walls of hurt are intimidating
but he still allows us to climb over them
as if he knows they don't belong there.
The colors of love are beautiful and real
when I climb over the wall and allow myself to drown in what he’s hiding.
When we move past the boy who painted the colors
they disappear,
fade into concrete
fold into a box that will only be opened
when he's ready again.
No comments:
Post a Comment