French Doors

Hi everyone and Happy Valentine’s Day! Sorry for my lack of posting recently, but here’s a little poem that’s quite appropriate for V-day since it’s about love, though it’s perhaps a bit on the sad side. Please tell me what you think of it in the comments and enjoy! -pc

French Doors

I. Untouched

Her head rests gently
On the little red cushion
Blooming fresh color into her rough skin
Skin of a thousand chipped swords
That had all broken somewhere
Deep down inside of her

The crimson of the cushion is but a handful
Of the blood that courses through her yawning veins
Filling up her body, softening her bones
But leaving only her soul

II. Imagination

Bright yellow buttercups fragrance the air
With their moist sunset dew
Wafting through her French doors
Those doors she swung open
Last Sunday
To fling herself
Into the crispness
Into the eloquence
Of the buttery morning air

She used to love
Running her broken hands
Along those doors and imagine them
Ambling down the cobblestone streets

Imagination is a glorious thing, no?

III. Remembrance

Her golden braids hanging down loose and straight
Down her back, caressing her neck
Flying behind her as she ran
Ran past grassy fields and stone-topped shops
The ones with painted bells that jingled when
She swung open the doors

Windows to her youth thrust open in her mind
And scenes of young love and sweet sin
Flit past her yawning eyes
Now merely black-and-white memories tucked away
Beneath her waning eyelids

IV. Innocence

She used to love kicking her wet shoes off and dancing in the rain
Tilting her head back
Letting the water touch her bare skin
But that was when she was madly,
Passionately in love with the world

That was back when she believed in love
When she liked its bitterness so much
She forgot how tasteless it really was

Back when her unbroken innocence
Forced her into implicitly trusting everyone
And everything
When she did not care whose arms she flung herself into
As she swung open the doors
When she did not care whose eyes she found herself staring wide-eyed into
Amidst the delicate waltz of the raindrops

And yet somehow it was always the same eyes, the same arms

V. Closing

And now with a deep sigh
That seemed to echo into every cobwebbed corner
She rises from the red cushion
As if to swing open the old French doors once again
And welcome the unfaltering rays back into the room

But instead
For one last time
She closes them