Lines.

If love was like crisp autumn mornings, would you still open a window to let the sun in?

Despite the frost,

I open up like a new journal

to be tampered with until

it becomes something familiar.

Until the feeling of paper 

on rough finger tips become 

a need–an expectation 

to be used purposefully.

Unleash your secrets in me,

even the dark ones that 

haunt you on top of damp pillows, 

and swollen eyelids.

Let your pain be known,

between lines that stay put

unless soaked in water

to be mercilessly destroyed.

Destruction can be renewing

when you learn to let go.

I love poetry, and write almost everyday. However, I haven’t had an urge to post them. After putting my recent poems together, I realized they were all love letters to myself. Maybe I wasn’t the one who wrote them.

Photo: Pinterest