Escaping out the window,
I rest on the roof,
chirping like a little bird,
soaking up the sweetness of the sun.
I write a love song with the harmonising wind,
keeping a fragment of your voice inside my inner monologue,
for those moments when my body feels like it can’t survive another day without being held.
I can survive,
but I won’t be happy about it.
I still find things to smile about,
the thought of the first smiles we’ll exchange,
a long kiss,
after interrupted months,
where I held you,
only in my dreams.
Good things are coming soon.
I tell myself that every time the time of day dictates I should wake,
and the world starts running, without me.
I catch up,
knowing that good things are coming soon,
but until then,
my only peace is when I write under the moon,
on the tiny bit of roof that I can escape to,
through the window of my bedroom.
I tell the moon that good things are coming,
and she tells me that she can’t wait.