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Where do I start? I miss you.
Blue runs through your veins
against your pale, freckled white skin.
Red is what pours
out, like the ketchup bottle
that no one ever shook before using.
It sits in the fridge, far
from the mustard.
Loss is an infection, which
gets worse as it is left untreated.
Worse & worse
as each day apathetically passes by.
The empty swing set creaks
the wind and blowing autumn leaves.
Naked branches dance
preparing for the winter's
first attack of frost.
A lonely tulip reaches
up for the pastel blue
and creamy white sky of spring.
The waves crash hard against
the rocks as the
hot summer sun beats down.
You can't see these elements
outside of your window.
These things exist only
in the place where we once existed.
Seal and stamp the envelope.
This love is an infection, which goes on when left untreated.
| Good write.|
The words seem very chosen. as if you thought hard about what to write although, in all it gives off a very sweet, and homey feel.
The infection repition brought the poem to a lovely conclusion though I would have preferred to see some more of it at the end.
Sounds like a fasinating back story is behind this piece.
|| Posted on 2008-12-04 00:00:00 | by dismal_s child | [ Reply to This ] || wow i loved this, good imagination, you realy give the mind a treat, |
well done hun x x x
|| Posted on 2008-12-03 00:00:00 | by secret kisses | [ Reply to This ] |