This summer might is as soft as your skin.
We were drunk off the sounds of crashing waves and distant melodies.
Here we are, dancing upon this wretched green lawn,
Chasing the phantoms of what we used to be.
You’re the golden girl of the moment, always have been.
I’ve always been just a simple dreamer with a reckless, pounding heart.
But even in this lush, glittering garden,
The shadows of those phantoms are enough to tear down this facade.
Through the bloom thay brushes against my cheek,
And the pale pink glow radiating off your dress.
There is a dark, incessant thorn.
Constantly waiting to saw us apart.
It’s a quiet tax on our romance.
A constant reminder that the fragrance will fade.
But love is not the same as that swindling light.
It stings, and lingers in drops of red.
But I’ll beat on, fingers stained and swollen.
Being able to understand the unity of the rose and thorn is certainly encouraging.
So, I grip the rose, bleed blossoming against my buttoned shirt,
Gazing up at the inhospitable moon.