- Joined
- Feb 25, 2021
- Messages
- 189
- Reaction score
- 550
- Pronouns
- He/Him
And so comes the spring
on the edge of April's silver song.
Music fades, but the wind carries on;
tosses magnolia and ripples in streams.
I think I might love you
in the same way the dogwood stands on her veil,
torn silk upon my roots as old Anne sets sail.
Would it change the shape you smiled if you knew?
Bitterly fond, I tear my eyes away,
and see a pair of laughing lovers on the street.
There's an anger sharp as thorns living in me,
my hands torn by the thicket just for a chance of something sweet.
The grass untamed and sun-warm meets me here -
trapped beneath the gnarled, unflowered limbs
of the only tree not graced by seasonal whims.
My secret comfort is knowing we mourn together.
Perhaps by luck we will both be saved,
worn by your eyes bright as a May flame
like an Oak turned to Ash in more than just name;
for each day untethered, the more I am unmade.
I hope your trees are blooming, too -
that the dogwood kept her veil, the cherries are sweet,
and that you charm every new face you meet.
Though I am lost as you go off and chase your dreams,
at least every blossom in Kanto knows I adore you.
But, if you can, Ash,
please come home soon?
some context: palletshipping, wahoo! this is supposed to be a love poem/letter written from the perspective of gary oak; treating all the spring flowers like confessions and signs the world knows he's smitten, but lamenting the fact Ash is leaving the region again - potentially to somewhere the season has already changed.
on the edge of April's silver song.
Music fades, but the wind carries on;
tosses magnolia and ripples in streams.
I think I might love you
in the same way the dogwood stands on her veil,
torn silk upon my roots as old Anne sets sail.
Would it change the shape you smiled if you knew?
Bitterly fond, I tear my eyes away,
and see a pair of laughing lovers on the street.
There's an anger sharp as thorns living in me,
my hands torn by the thicket just for a chance of something sweet.
The grass untamed and sun-warm meets me here -
trapped beneath the gnarled, unflowered limbs
of the only tree not graced by seasonal whims.
My secret comfort is knowing we mourn together.
Perhaps by luck we will both be saved,
worn by your eyes bright as a May flame
like an Oak turned to Ash in more than just name;
for each day untethered, the more I am unmade.
I hope your trees are blooming, too -
that the dogwood kept her veil, the cherries are sweet,
and that you charm every new face you meet.
Though I am lost as you go off and chase your dreams,
at least every blossom in Kanto knows I adore you.
But, if you can, Ash,
please come home soon?
some context: palletshipping, wahoo! this is supposed to be a love poem/letter written from the perspective of gary oak; treating all the spring flowers like confessions and signs the world knows he's smitten, but lamenting the fact Ash is leaving the region again - potentially to somewhere the season has already changed.
