I’ll wait

Dear love,
I’m writing from the lonesome hills of luscious green attire

from the home in which i lit the candles that burned for your return

from the depths of a beating heart sorrowfully set to yearn

for one who’s mind had lost the path concealed in the quagmire

did you know I lit each one every single night?

melted away gallons of wax just to give you light?

But I guess you’d already lost the arms that used to hold me tight

And i can’t help but sit and observe the ant crawling below the butterfly

then one is killed but the other cherished despite their shared placidity

and I can’t help but wonder if I am trapped because I don’t have wings

Or if I’m caught because I lack the effulgent ethereal sheen