You Are My Own
You are my own,
Old English house with
A wrap-around porch,
All crisp lines and
Soft colors at dusk
When your eyes are golden.
You are the warmest blanket
When it’s the dead of winter,
If someone had told me in September that you were going to fall in love with me, I would’ve laughed in their face. (There was no way.)
If someone had told me in October that I was going to fall in love right back, I would’ve told them that can’t be true. (While harboring secret suspicion towards my heart.)
Leaves sizzled in the night breeze while gravel crunched loudly beneath my boots. I was being too loud, and I winced at the heralding sound of my homecoming like a little boy trying to sneak past his mother. The light at the end of the path… our little home painted in warm yellows against a foreboding sky—each window a beacon of light, not leading me to safety, but seeking me out like the lanterns of an angry mob ready to sear my skin and uncover my secrets with their exposing flames.
A lot can happen in one single second. The shot to a president’s head which alters a nation, roaming hands on a foreign body which alters a heart, a miscalculation in step which alters a life, one lone thought which alters perception… To me, time seems to slow when focused on, like a pot of water that never boils when you stare at it.
Everyone is laughing, except for you.
You are currently at your own twenty-fifth birthday party, a swanky gathering in the lounge of a penthouse restaurant. The walls are made of glass so clean you can almost feel the wind, and a glance outside presents you with millions of glowing windows, each curve and joint of New York City’s skyline shimmering beneath the indigo sky.
Sullivan passed a can of peaches to the crying children. We had evacuated to the jungle before the explosive shells landed in the village, but now the homes were piles of wood and straw. The children and their parents followed our squad as we walked around the craters in the road.