A poem of a love I once had.

I will be the end of her beginning. My heart buried deeper than the brown of her hair, hers material sewn onto her sleeve. Hers was painted yellow, fresh, innocent like a child’s drawing, clouds in a sky of blue. Mine led as graphite markings, a scribbling in a corner, you go back to only when bored. She never dreamt of marriage, caught in in the wonder of life, she never saw the point. I vowed to keep my feelings safe, heart a brick wall away from those trying to play me like the instruments she craved. I danced like my fingers in her hand, an ant under the glass sunlight, my soul the flames of her eyes. I float, silence of waves, wonder of the future of us, but does she ever see the past? She has memories of sketching by the fields, daisies and roses, the sun setting on an empty sky she thought was happy, she didn’t see the loneliness in its blue. She asked me once why people fell in love, why I would keep trying even if the colours of our pages clashed, and harmonies flattened, if the birds in the sky never flew? I told her that I would not die of fear, I would not wait to die of something as cold and icy as who I tried to become, I will die in the fire of her eyes, for maybe a phoenix will soar again. I am but the first of her pure and simple soul. I will be the end of her beginning.

Submitted July 13, 2019 at 11:21PM

I will be the end of her beginning. My heart buried deeper than the brown of her hair, hers material sewn onto her sleeve. Hers was painted yellow, fresh, innocent like a child’s drawing, clouds in a sky of blue. Mine led as graphite markings, a scribbling in a corner, you go back to only when bored. She never dreamt of marriage, caught in in the wonder of life, she never saw the point. I vowed to keep my feelings safe, heart a brick wall away from those trying to play me like the instruments she craved. I danced like my fingers in her hand, an ant under the glass sunlight, my soul the flames of her eyes. I float, silence of waves, wonder of the future of us, but does she ever see the past? She has memories of sketching by the fields, daisies and roses, the sun setting on an empty sky she thought was happy, she didn’t see the loneliness in its blue. She asked me once why people fell in love, why I would keep trying even if the colours of our pages clashed, and harmonies flattened, if the birds in the sky never flew? I told her that I would not die of fear, I would not wait to die of something as cold and icy as who I tried to become, I will die in the fire of her eyes, for maybe a phoenix will soar again. I am but the first of her pure and simple soul. I will be the end of her beginning.