You'll knock twice and I'll open the door.
And I won't let my eyes startle
as I grab the white tulips
from your proffering hands.
You will caress the dust off
thick book spines in the shelves
and you'll choose the green armchair
that still moulds round your curves.
I will glimpse your dress billow
as we dance across the room
and you'll laugh, mouth wide open:
"We'll trip over ourselves!"
We'll make love as the sun sets
with each one of our bones
and you'll whisper I love you
with wine painted lips.
B i t b y b i t,
you will colour the details
of my greyscale recalls.
And this poem
will have never existed.
About the Creator
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also pledge your support or give them a one-off tip, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.