Painful, the wisps, of our parting ways.
Yes, a sentient being, I must be. Yes, being sentience, is a must now.
In these spring winds, you cross to European grounds. Bonjour, coming from their floral mouths, and Cafe zealous from your tenth cup. You’re worth every last drop. She must know this by now!
My western sky is dull, even though we rise to the same sun and rest to the same moon; sombre clouds got in the way. When you return, I must resist being the pearl, near your skin, salvaging my own luster.
Poem: Naomi Ruth S. Images: Blended Pinterest