Amidst the daisies,
all I could see,
was you.

Just us alone,
beneath blue sky.

You beside me, eyes closed,
wind tracing its fingers
through your hair,
bathed in sunlight,
your soft smile lingering.

Oh, how I envy them—
for giving you a peace
I can only dream of.

I know a way to alter space and time—
Open a portal between our worlds.
It’s a simple eight-word code:
‘Hey, I miss you, how have you been?’

Close your eyes and ponder
When was the last time you ever let yourself wonder?
When was the last time you asked and inquired of things;
that rekindled in your heart that fire?

When was the last time you let yourself roam free?
When was the last time you let yourself dance in the rain with nothing but pure bliss on your face?
When was the last time you ran barefoot on a beach; the last time you let the sand cover your every inch?
When was the last time you chased fireflies at dusk or the last time you skipped stones across the lake?
Why did you make it your last and let it all fade?

When was the last time you saw the sun melt into the sea?
Or the last time you climbed a tree just to touch the sky?
The last time you lay on the grass looking up to the clouds in the sky…
Why did you make it your last? Why?

You never knew it’d be your last; your last time chasing fireflies or your last time skipping stones.
You never knew it’d be your last time touching the sky and letting some warmth get to your bones.
If you never knew it’d be your last then why did you stop?
Why did you stop letting the rain wash your face? Why did you stop skipping stones across the lake?

Open your eyes.
Who said it needed to be your last?
Go out there, do it all over again.
Run barefoot on the beach, let yourself roam free.
Go and climb another tree and see the sun melt into the sea.
Be as carefree as you used to be;
Because who was it really?
Who said that it needed to be your last?

It's now been years,
moments frozen behind glass.
with our fingers interlaced,
like lattices of coloured paper,
neatly folded into swans.
Bold, elegant, proud.
a small army of comfort,
in the small battlefield.
with rows of paper flowers,
all blue, lavender and crimson.
once alive with our laughter.

squares of paper,
left strewn across the floor.
torn, ripped and split.
now burnt with hate,
burnt with ruined passion.
leaving a charred memory,
scattered among the ashes,
drifting away, gently.

Like the swans you used to fold.

Marching on a field of white
lines striping the way.
Piping on my clarinet-
marching band back in the day.

Drilled through the heat - harsh light,
sets perfected by the night.
Playing solo’d make me fly
but together we can cry.

Move as one, hitting dots, our bodies spoke music,
the songs we once knew, now distant and elusive.
Reeds left unopened, my mind's gone acoustic-
echoes remaining from memory once lucid.