04-17-2013, 12:48 AM
Spring
Spring is a cracked vase of wilted flowers
that we happen to remember.
An explosion of bold water colours
that drips down like raindrops on bus windows.
It’s smiling about memories of the sweet shop in the corner,
and glooming at the condo built in its place.
Glorifying the past, creating ideals out of averages
because new beginnings lost their novelty long ago.
It’s the silence between us, after so many years,
speaking a million words about how we still feel.
Our affection hasn’t changed, surprisingly,
but the air between us has, along with time, turned old and stale.
Spring is a cracked vase of wilted flowers
that we happen to remember.
An explosion of bold water colours
that drips down like raindrops on bus windows.
It’s smiling about memories of the sweet shop in the corner,
and glooming at the condo built in its place.
Glorifying the past, creating ideals out of averages
because new beginnings lost their novelty long ago.
It’s the silence between us, after so many years,
speaking a million words about how we still feel.
Our affection hasn’t changed, surprisingly,
but the air between us has, along with time, turned old and stale.
Back!