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Pocketful of Pictures

In the soft pink spring of blossoming flowers
The pockets of my favourite jacket
Which once belonged to you
Were full of glossy polaroids with both of our most grotesque expressions

In the raging heat of summer
My pockets were still full of pictures
In which however I was missing
I could stay up till nocturnal hours that weren't at all a waste of time
To admire pictures of you and your perfect body in the most ridiculous angles

Then came the dwindling auburn leaves
My pockets were not empty at least
They contained pictures of the many places we would venture to
That always captured their own sometimes lonely beauty
No matter how plain they looked

I never knew why I stopped taking those pictures of you
Or of us

But when the biting cold took over this town
My pockets were never filled
And I guess this was compensated by your presence
Which started to become a rarity
I don't know if the pleasure I got from the times I saw you was a blessing
Or if my empty pockets were part of a curse

peachomeacho

@peachomeacho

I use this space mostly to write poems that are a result of a rush of emotions rather than ideas

9
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