The Curl

The wind seems to curve around you and you layers,

And the rain slips off your invisible cloak of hidden despair.

The air felt so cold and damp,

And our love is not bright enough to match the street lamps.

But you hold me close,

So close I feel you breathe,

And I breathe you in,

Like an old memory.

But I was never touched by the rain drops that fell,

And you were never hit by the blowing leaves that had escaped and been let loose in this divine hell.

You smiled and I gasped,

“What is the new found wonderland?

Where you can’t be hurt and I can’t be bruised?

Where the sky’s always grey and the winds sing our blues?

And rain were drips silver when it gets caught in your hair?”

And you grinned before kissing me.

“This our storm of fairs.”

And the battle of wind and rain,

Of water and air took its battle.

Our love was no casulaity,

Nor was it a catastrophe.

Only I was a red balloon tail blowing through the sky,

And you were a stalking blue wolf in the night.

You caught me and liked my red pallour,

But we kissed soon enough and,

I just guess purple wasn’t your colour.


Thanks for reading.

Best of luck,

The Time Traveling Writer.

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2 thoughts on “The Curl

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