Zemira

Rain, a thing often described as “sad” but think about it. 
Is rain really sad? It feeds crops, cleans the earth? Does that sound sad? 
Think of it as sad, but if you look, like really look. 

I am sitting here by the fairy lights strung 

Through the interior of West’s bus

Listening to him sleep

Writing down everything that I want you to know

Butterfly kiss, soft against my skin.

Promises.

Cyclone of feeling, enveloping not just me, but us.

Anticipation.

Honey-brown sunset eyes, on my green hazel.

Confessions.