There was an age
When my eyes would lose your eyes,
At night, to my pillowcase,
And by the morning, as the sky celebrates
Its 4.54 billionth coronation
By adorning a sun as mark of legislation;
By the morning, you’d evaporate.
I would recollect you
Amidst afternoon-ish hours and twilit minutes
From lovers in café queues
From under dusty vows, and from all things untrue,
But as the sky would observe
Ink trickling out of the new monarch’s nerves,
Upon my pillowcase, you’ disappear from view.
But now, you’re archived,
Stacked neatly on the shelves of my subconscious
Since the last time I cried;
Stored in mason jars like old, stuttering Christmas lights.
No, I cannot lose you anymore,
For now my eyes have given up on downpour
And in this restrained tempest, you hide.
I can no longer cry you out of my system, I cannot rip you out of my skin,
For I’m afraid you’re braided into my soul
Like wildflowers in the hair of a 6 year old.