We think we know love
Growing up on fairy tales and sonnets
We think it is the thing
That will make us whole
To see the one
From across the room
The one who will save us
Sweep us off our feet
Carry us away
To happily ever after
I thought I knew love
Until I saw you
Until I saw you
My love was a dewdrop
Not a tsunami wave
You reshaped my heart
Made it stretch beyond its bounds
You cleaved me apart
With just one look
It took crawling through hazy clouds
Of inexplicable pain
Hours of torture
Holding on to your name
Waiting to hold you
Picturing your smile
You did not come willingly
But fate intervened
You fought the inevitable
The magnetic pull
It seemed like a dream
When you finally came
By body was battered
But my soul was alight
Looking into your eyes
For the very first time
I knew it was forever
That unbreakable tie
Of mother and daughter
Falling in love for the first time
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from Krystl Densmore and writers in Poets and other communities.
Heart of an Assassin
The music palpitated from the heart of the club into the clear night, rippling out like a stone tossed into still water. My bones vibrated from it, from the anticipation that charged the air. I imagined myself inside, anonymous, among the sweaty, swaying bodies that packed every corner, lost in music and movement. I shook my head to clear the thoughts. Dancing was not on tonight’s agenda. I peered around the corner of the building, pressing myself so far into the shadows of the alley that the bricks scraped my skin like the chapped lips of a rough lover. No one appeared to be preoccupied with searching hidden backstreets for hired guns. I slid along the wall, looking for a way to scale up to the roof three stories above. A dumpster squatting below a rusty, skeletal fire escape presented itself, as if I had willed it into existence. I scurried up agilely, pausing halfway to conceal myself. A pair of drunken club patrons stumbled into the dark mouth of the alley, moaning and pawing at one another. For a brief moment I imagined myself as the young woman below, flushed with desire, making wrong decisions that felt right, free and unencumbered on a Friday night. I could relate, at least, to making wrong decisions. How I had ended up twenty-two years old, a seasoned assassin with a death toll a mile long, was just one long procession of bad decisions. I wondered at the turn of my thoughts; this was just another day at the office. I turned my attention back to the matter at hand and continued soundlessly up the brick facade. I swung a leg over the lip of the roof and rolled behind the cover of a steaming vent. The musk of dancers and the vestiges of acrid cigarette smoke wisped into the cool night air. I crept low across the gravelly roof to perch over the club’s entrance, awaiting my mark.
By Krystl Densmore4 years ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.