At Times

At times,

the ferocity of love
she still feels
astounds her.
The way sunlight
can touch a familiar face,
the faint curve
of a shy smile.

At times,

the upwelling of adoration
can eclipse the emptiness,
and give way
to a hope so fragile,
so tenuous,
that to believe in it
is the ultimate act
in self-betrayal.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
This entry was posted in Love Poems, On Depression, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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