He was a Warm Sunday Afternoon
He was a Warm Sunday Afternoon button poetry stories
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noelleweymouth
noelleweymouth just a poet
Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago
She looked at the water and she thought of only the rapid waves crashing over one another, In all reality, she saw the universe for the first time in an exceptionally overdrawn out period of time ticks on her watch,

He was a Warm Sunday Afternoon

She looked at the water and she thought of only the rapid waves crashing over one another,

In all reality, she saw the universe for the first time in an exceptionally overdrawn out period of time ticks on her watch,

And, finally, she peered into flickering stars,

Watched as airplanes raced by with millions of lives inside,

Come to realize,

the water was far from the universe...

He was.

He was,

a warm Sunday afternoon,

Dragging the storm clouds out of her ever so broken shell of existence,

Pulling the cracks in her arms together with a needle and thread so tight that they would never break again,

He was a knife that could cut so deep,

but only ever wrote in pen,

He would forever defend,

Everything she stood for,

Open every door,

As if it were the last she would walk through,

Hold her hand and push her to chew,

Without spitting this time.

He promised her the world and told her she was just fine.

He was the kind of person that would wrap his arms around you so tight it would make you feel so small that you could fit inside of him to never escape,

He became a part of her as something she felt would forever come too late,

But this time, the world was on her side.

He was a warm Sunday afternoon.

The kind that graced you with its rays of sun you had been wishing for all winter,

All the flowers flourished as if they had known it were no longer time to wither,

She grew brighter as the Sunday pushed forward, forever wishing for more of his warm,

Sunday afternoons to push her out of her dreary storm.

A smile written in a million different ways spread across her mouth in every form,

Hoping to never have to grab hold and become another swarm,

Of broken pieces flying freely through the wind,

Wishing she had never had the chance to begin.

She has always fallen in love with the sky,

It was a place of freedom where she wished to go when she would die.

Now, when she looked at him she saw nothing but constellations in his eyes,

Infested with a million sparkling moments and a promise to dry all of the tears she cries,

She fell in love with a person, the kind that reminded her that living for those warm Sunday afternoons was the reason she has always loved the sky,

It was a place to go when she wanted to feel most alive.

He was a warm Sunday afternoon,

She lost touch of her dark, gloomy storm,

They were a whole year of seasons,

And he gave her a million reasons,

To forever fight for the life of meaning.

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