Tomorrow will come.
The rays through the curtains
will finally inhale freedom and
wonders will steam over
the I-love-you-London cup with coffee.
The town will carry the scent of the moon.
Maybe the stranger who sells bus tickets
will look like you; he will have your eyes-
green, like the wild emerald breeze of the summer,
and a smile just like yours- a transformation
of a slow- spoken love spell.
And if that doesn’t happen, if not tomorrow-
in a week, in a month, in a year…
sometimes, somehow peace will settle
into the cracks where light is absent,
just like the artistry that sculptures rainbows.
Only then, there in the leftovers of my heart,
in the shadows of my consumed soul,
I could realize, reluctantly or not, that
I still think of you and the orange vision of
the clustered skies and it doesn’t hurt anymore …
© 2014, B. T., All rights reserved