fragile
That one summer I became a wildfire.
A third – degree wide open wound.
Lingering and hovering.
Whether to linger?
Though winter does, like winters always do.
Linger. With morning frosts and hands stuck in pockets.
And I’m afraid I can’t hold yours.
Just as I’m afraid I’ve grown up with sorrows,
You did not.
Making myself a tent of laugher and smiles.
Whispering, make yourself at home.
The one thing I understood in my neon glared youth,
We wear fragile bodies,
And even more
Fragile souls.
And they have their own ways on turning against us.
And so I can’t hold your hand right now,
Because I hover and linger,
Whether should I tell you stories of the summer I became I wildfire?











