And here my writing returns back to the oh-so-expected sense of romance
the stereotypical and too often dull sense of imagined spark
of a seemingly blinded heart falling without any way of catching something to lighten the fall.
Poetry of such can far too often turn to a routine written by a blatherskite
but life is so much more than cliche with you.
It is night skies filled with constellations of our own, questioning which stars burned out eons ago and light is just now reaching our skin.
It is walking along the same trail I have countless times but suddenly realizing just how alive and extraordinary everything around me is.
Every spot of grass breaking through pavement,
each patch of wildflowers brightly growing,
how everything is alive and indescribable
and how you belong alongside these incredibly beautiful wonders of nature.
Walking with you, the grass lining the path seemed so much more vivid and alive than it ever did before. The light shown through the gaps in the trees and lit up the leaves in such a way they were a green I’d never seen before, dancing patterns of light onto pavement.
Life with you is each heartbeat pumping crimson curiosity and wonder through my indigo veins.
It is songs found in the sway of hammocks, the humming of crickets, the gentle laughter, the bass of your heart beating through your tee and synchronizing with the whirring cicadas.
It is the lack of words, the emptied mind when your eyes meet mine and when I attempt to arrange my blushed thoughts into some combination of 26 letters.
There are no words to do this justice.
I have been sitting here frustrated for days,
trying,
dying
to find the right words but there is not a single one of worth.
Maybe my poetry is turning to romance, turning soft.
Maybe it has lacked it’s angsty appeal and grit.
Maybe, though, maybe it reflects the way I see the world now.
Maybe it is filled with emerald vines and canary wildflowers.
I don’t mind.
I see the world more vividly, more vibrantly when you are beside me.
Porcelain Prose 