i am but first –
a soft yearning for something warmer,
sweeter than morning dew on april mornings –
you know the adage april shower brings may flowers,
but april has been unbearably dry, i worry there will
be nothing to bloom in the month to follow.
what if april had already exhausted itself before
it already began – a star born dying, brimming
with light, i almost think of april as a secret lover,
kept in the dark, and only knows of love.
it's cowardice – it’s by design, if april knew anymore,
it’d be paramount to death, i would not tolerate being
that vulnerable. i already suffer from tenderness,
do me the kindess of being gentle with me for a
fortnight or two, i just no longer have it in me to
bear any more wounds, and your tongue –
as well-meaning as it is, floods me with self-doubt
daily. i guess that says more about me then it does
about you – do you think your autobiography would
capture that sentiment – of the former stranger who
wandered into your life as a stray, that you kept around
because it was the kind thing to do? i am certain of one
thing – history will be fond of you.
