He may as well have been the borealis
all aurora aura and out of reach.
He pointed me north with his maren eyes,
and it was the first time the cold
felt like home.
He shoved snow in my pockets
so I'd always have some to remember him by,
as if the memory of
the way his hands tangled in the angora of my sweater
could be preserved in ice.
He didn't know it was already sealed,
in the stain on my lips,
chapped crimson made sweet
from his cinnamon soaked
maple syrup mouth.
one hundred tiny promises
and folded paper hearts
filled the spring rains
and we danced without umbrellas
wishing we had swords to battle time
unconquered, unyielding,
always watching
always against us.
About the Creator
Ellie Hoovs
Breathing life into the lost and broken. Writes to mend what fire couldn't destroy. Poetry stitched from ashes, longing, and stubborn hope.
My Poetry Collection DEMORTALIZING is out now!!!: https://a.co/d/5fqwmEb
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How, Too
Many people wonder how, too. You are not alone, and I am an expert. I will teach you how, too! First, you need to remit a small application fee and fill out an application describing the nature of your financial situation and how often payments will be made, as this will have great bearing on how well I teach you how, too.
By Harper Lewis4 days ago in Fiction
Comments (3)
Amazing!
“He may as well have been the borealis all aurora aura and out of reach.” This is lovely and so true to some people. Sneaking in like northern lights, those you can see but can’t touch.
Fantastic