Poppy the Poet
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Kindling for a Fire
I am running around in circles, chasing my heartstrings. The road ends in spike-strips and screaming brakes, I turn up the music and press the accelerator anyway, not caring about the rain slick bitumen or the cars that crash around me. There is me and there is my heart, and if you can't have both, please at least accept this broken thing beating in my palms.
He is the type of person to hold all his cards close to his chest, not knowing you can read them anyway. He doesn't mark his arrival and departure with a postage stamp or airport scene like the others. Instead, he slowly fades away like morning mist, not realising you admire him like a sunrise.
What if I pressed a confession against your skin like I used to apply the band aids? What if I told you something not even my poems know? What if I told you I still wish for your happiness like I used to wish for you? What if I told you that despite the way you caused wounds in my flesh time after time, I’d still stitch yours together if you’d only come close enough to let me?