The cold front of a morning breeze
reminds me of my empty bed.
You are not here.
Blankets, comforters, pillows
all are pointless and inept
lacking the soothing lullaby your heart
plays while my head rests
upon your chest.
I wonder-- why, when, will it ever
but change and answers both remain fleeting
like snow on December in Manila
(if fleeting was to mean "you need a miracle for that to happen").
I'm not sad. Or depressed.
Somber takes a new face today,
just as the rising sun reminds me it is a new day
so to must my views of the future to come be just as bright.
the songs play in my head when the quiet moment come
and the crackling birds outside my window continue their hideous shrill war;
once they were singing, courting one another with song-
now only territorial wars remain.
I am no poet -- that at least I know for certain --
my words remain barely a shadow of Neruda nor Whitman,
but feelings require words to be released,
and eventually forgotten.
It is Tuesday, a cold morning in February,
and all I can think of
is the fact you are not here.
Nor will you ever be.
I don't think I've reached a point where I can say I loved you,
but I do know
now I never ever will.
been a while since I attempted a hand at poetry.
hope to the very least, this came out as something worth reading.
"everything in life is only for now..."