“Last scene.

A little past five.

The dying breath of a sun.

Only a table to break us apart.

I lean backwards so their arm can fit.

And I dance. I always end up dancing.

It was me all those years standing and waiting for butterflies to feed of my bare body.

It was me. Dragging chairs and changing shadows.

Day 59. I believe they call it February.

You came by with a thornless rose.

Euphoric butterflies refusing to leave.

Have I told you I’m only comfortable with dull colours?

Stay. Stay and tell me what happens when love goes right.”

  • Author: Ani. Is. (Pseudonym) (Online Online)
  • Published: March 17th, 2023 04:45
  • Category:
  • Views:
  • User favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek.


  • L. B. Mek

    love this!
    such elegant imagery
    and a brave heart's, hope
    imbued in every line
    thank you!

  • Myth

    I wonder ..
    (I know February won't say ...
    shadows, the table & chairs all had taken a nap that evening .).
    But I have to ask..
    Is it a real rose ?

To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.