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Timing
August 8, 2013
She, a dancer.
He, a writer.
Cut-out photos
Exchanged
With a kiss,
A force
Too foreign
For words.
It was a movement,
A spirited swirl,
Tip-toed march;
The grace of warmth
That quickly chilled
When her photo
Was crumpled
In his black blazer
And his was tossed away
Because too many
Years had passed
Before he understood
Enough
To finish his poem.
© Arina Z., Euclid, OH
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This article has 2 comments.
Reminds me of one of those romantic movies where the character love each other at the beginning and for whatever reason they loose contact until the very end, and fall happily in love again. I like the movement in this poem. I know that sounds weird. But I do feel a movement in it. Very beautiful.
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“Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.”