PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

It is measured in the ticks of a metronome,
swiftly swinging side to side before slowubg
to a deadened crawl.
It is fueled by the Sun,
its reflection glancing off
and bouncing into the line of sight;
squinting.
It is touched by the slight moments,
small talk and brushes of hands,
all leading to coquettish giggles.
The aroma is honeysuckle,
sickly sweet, headache inducing,
intoxicating and addictive.

It tastes of death.
Of broken promises and dreams,
the totality of failure and loss.
Of disappointment and falling short,
every jaundice-yellow bruise on the ego,
every sweet thing said elsewhere.

'Love is patient,' they say.
'Patience is a virtue,' is quipped as an addendun.
Simple mathematics is my reply.
If love is patient, and patience is a virtue,
then I am the Mother Theresa of romantic quandries,
therefore I should be rewarded for my time.
I have not asked for anything else but to be loved,
solely,
only me,
and yet, here I am,
still waiting for the bittersweet scent to fade,
the musky taste of rot to leave my lips.

Be patient.