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The colorful things I have in mind,
he is made up of those.
He’s right inside my head,
yet isn’t anywhere close.
He’s made up of stanzas,
lines of wit and faulty humor,
sarcasm and honest feelings,
but now there’s no more.
Must he be a novel’s chapter?
No, that’s too long.
He’s a completely different story,
though without a melody, he is a song.
He isn’t a novel, but a poem.
A poem so deep and touching,
as we were deep when we touched.
He isn’t a novel, but a poem.
A man who comes and then goes,
as a poem ends when it ends.
He isn’t a novel, but a poem.
And the colorful things I have in mind,
he is made up of those,
but he’s not anywhere close.
same post to be found on: https://mscurls.wordpress.com/2016/07/05/hes-a-poem/
Published by A Grace
Written by A Grace
7 years ago 
