Sitting on my lap,
she turned to me and said,
“This is not gonna work out.”
My leg had been numb
for the last ten minutes,
and she was probably sore;
a change in seating arrangements
was more than welcome.
One look at her face, though,
made me realize
she was bringing up
a different kind of discomfort.
Her smile disappeared faster than my wit,
and her forlorn eyes vanquished all my words
from existence.
I never saw it coming.
All I could ask was
“Why?”
I do not remember much of what she said after,
but throughout that painful conversation,
riddled with melancholy
and a touch of star-crossed misfortune,
everything changed,
apart from one little thing:
she was still seated on my lap.
A numb heart,
an even number leg.
About the Creator
Lune
I write about anything and everything that I think is interesting...so I really don't have a niche. That is a bad thing, or so I've been told. Check out my other works here: lune1.medium.com
Comments (2)
Keep up the good work!
Oh my gosh I like this, too. I love how much you pack into your poems with such few words!