Coming Back To Life

People are old news. 

I've realised now that I hold onto places. 

Like, 

The little sunlit patch of grass high up in the mountain

That we glimpsed through a pair of dysfunctional binoculars. 

I know, 

Everything is poetry, 

When your heart is in flames. 

My heart isn't here right now

And my destination isn't a place. 

They are the scattered touches, 

Like that of a size 4 pony hair brush

I pushed the clouds away

As their submissions tried to imitate my touch. 

Stubborn traces

Into the woods that none of us should've crossed

The path longed to be left alone

Quiet, peaceful

Bereft of us. 

I think

Sometimes people are beautiful

Not in their looks

No

But by being solely who they are. 

Exactly how

We get reminded that we love 

The chrysanthemum

Because it never tries to imitate the rose. 

You aren't you

I see you want to be a better version of you

And everyone says that's fine 

But tell me then

Isn't that exactly why

We absolutely fail to fall in love with ourselves

For that very moment?

You

Are like those cotton seeds

Lightweight, kissing me with your eyes.

Drifting

Away and away, till you are far away

From where you started. 

You love your new home

Although the concrete doesn't smell 

Of the mountain earth 

Like,

From where you came from.