truth.

those fall leaves and burnt orange sunsets,

cold hands finding their way to each other,

stepping delicately into painful pasts

and out again,

like footsteps left in dewy grass,

picking out a path for our lives.

it is just play.

a made-up story we wrote

to help ourselves sleep better at night.

we know this.

tell me then,

why the shared tears come as naturally 

as the rolling waves of the ocean,

and why the secrets we reveal feel as honest

as birdcall in spring,

and why,

when your dark eyes are on mine,

they seem to whisper to me like the wind

a soft promise.

tell me,

how can this love

be both as real and as fleeting

as those fall leaves and burnt orange sunsets

QAD