Winters turning poetic
Long drives to a so called home,
November rain falling
on window panes,
leaving behind temporary
feelings of bliss.
Early morning sun rays
falling on your face,
your warm hands touching mine,
taking away with them
all the cold and anxiety.
The way the wind
ruffled your hair,
the way your fingers
intertwined with mine,
the way you fumbled
while telling me why you weren't okay.
It was all so poetic,
like it was meant to happen.
But.
Then something hits me.
People who are meant to be together,
sometimes just don't stay together.
And that's when I realised,
that it had all turned to out
to be a memory from a forgotten winter
All happy things
turning poetic as they get over.
And just stay in the mind
Maybe that's why they say.
A writer's mind is a terrible place,
full of memories,
turning poetic with every passing minute.
