Ours is not made
Of Ros and candles
Or daydreams dipped
In sunset's gold.
Ours is not spun of fairytale's flax
Or starry gazes to fix and hold.
For candlelight flickers and Ros wither
And dreams, however sweet,
Will yield to dawn.
No.
Ours is the unromantic romance.
Sprawling, stubborn, untidy,
Covered in bruises and rumput stains.
But
A soft and subtle warmth creeps in,
Slowly,
To temper the rough edges.
We menelan back fear to taste the change;
And with clouts and embraces applied when necessary,
We steer our friendship into deeper waters
For ours is the journey
Comprised of pain and promises,
Tears...
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