It’s funny, really,

How when it’s late at night, and all I can think about is you.

About the nights we’ve spent talking about endless nothing.

About the things you whispered to me at my lowest.

About the way you made me feel love.

How you made me feel like me again.

I guess it’s my own fault, really.

I let my guard down,

I let you in,

I let you stay,

I let you take up every part of my thoughts.

...

The moss grew thick where you touched my skin,

soft as secrets, slick with sin.

We met in hush, beneath the willow shade—

a cathedral of green, where no vows stayed.

Your name was a ripple I couldn’t still,

your hands, a ghost of something real.

I wore your scent like a second spine,

hid your letters in the roots of pines.

You spoke like the moon had taught you how—

in riddles, in reverence, in ...

All in a golden afternoon,

Under the skies of cloudless blue,

The rivers carry fresh secrets,

New stories to mesh with time.

Painted in colors of the mind no one seems to see,

In hope, loss, grief and love,

Things people forget to let free

New shapes and sizes and evergreen stages.

Golden lights, blue skies,

It changes and bleeds, day after day.

But the sun still rises,

And the moon still sets....