You look a little different today,
and speak a tone, you never did.
Your cheeks don’t turn red anymore,
even in long awaited dates
So I choose to see you a very different way
In pictures of you, of days that are long gone
And yet you refuse to tell me, that,
‘Dear, love has long gone.’
You hide under a dying tree in the dread season of autumn asking for life, for protection and for acceptance. The odd season of autumn is like the resting phase of your last relationship. The leaves turn a different color, yellow mostly, and fall down. Though somehow autumn never fails to come.
Enid Blyton never fails to impress. Her books bring back an epiphany of the Royalty, the high class. Silver plates on the dining table,fancied accents and mothers cooking delicious meals. Go and look upon the picture libraries, and the fridge magnets. Pictures, Books, picture-books only tell tales of everything good, which is why picture books are never complete. Because your life isn’t like one that Blyton wrote but everything that you never imagined it would be like.
I choose not to have a preference yet winter is oddly enticing. Tender meetings with hot coffee, wearing the only few hand woven sweaters I own. They protect me, hide me, and thus save me from opening myself to everyone. Winter is subtle and beautiful. It doesn’t snow here, but my love for the season makes me think it will. The last time I prayed to god for snow, it hailed. But some day, it will snow.
Do you remember the first time you went to a date, with a guy whom you once called your friend. Do you remember that first kiss after the late night date in a highly sophisticated restaurant. You were in a great deal of confusion like any other person, you muttered some gibberish, wishing that your mouth would stop talking, wishing that your date didn’t judge. Wishing that everything went well.
You were way too young, Fragile.
You have grown into an adult, Broken.
Shattered pieces, holding together in glue.