A poem when you got it bad. And lost it even worse. Featuring iambic tetrameter
A poem based on a folkloric Spanish song about a bull that fell in love with the moon.
ou choose gray over blue, why do you then paint every picture with my shade? If you’ve only bathed in shallow waters, why do you mock the depth of the ocean?
Still, your sweet eyes swell with salty seeds of shame.
Three knocks, each one harder than the last.
That was his thing, every time we left for the day. Some days there was even a large pause between each knock. He didn’t think I ever noticed, but I did.
I am a ghost in the city. A full-measure soul, with a secret pact. I see everyone, and hear their thoughts, protect their right to think them.