Misschelseabun
10-23-2011, 11:01 AM
If you’d asked me first
that my broken heart would be an exchange,
for the sweetened possibility of untold memories
that stretched across a winding country mile.
Of the snowy day that I not yet knew,
when we had to turn back and fell against angels
under the virgin backdrop of dirty brick terraces
and green plastic wheelie bins.
Or the sugary teardrop of twisted ice cream,
muffled by race cars
as we stole urgent kisses behind the banking of all the familiar.
And the bittersweet bubble of festive cheer,
spanning the country to straddle the distance
of family ties and New Year hope.
Only to shatter within the arms of honest words.
For the brutalist night
when the armour was shed,
and our unclothed souls broke down to admit
that the junction arrived
and the signpost had passed,
each salty tear a confession we long had never hoped spoken.
that my broken heart would be an exchange,
for the sweetened possibility of untold memories
that stretched across a winding country mile.
Of the snowy day that I not yet knew,
when we had to turn back and fell against angels
under the virgin backdrop of dirty brick terraces
and green plastic wheelie bins.
Or the sugary teardrop of twisted ice cream,
muffled by race cars
as we stole urgent kisses behind the banking of all the familiar.
And the bittersweet bubble of festive cheer,
spanning the country to straddle the distance
of family ties and New Year hope.
Only to shatter within the arms of honest words.
For the brutalist night
when the armour was shed,
and our unclothed souls broke down to admit
that the junction arrived
and the signpost had passed,
each salty tear a confession we long had never hoped spoken.