Curly bursts in like wildfire,
kicks open the doors I keep closed,
flips the quiet hour upside down
and laughs at the neat rows of restraint.
She screams at shadows,
throws confetti at boundaries,
spins heartbeats into dizzying pirouettes
while I hold steady, watching the chaos bloom.
“Fuck him,” Curly yells.
“Fuck me, fuck everything,
but holy shit, look at this feeling!”
Tears and laughter in the same breath,
a sappy anthem, a daring dare,
a tongue pressed to the pulse of danger.
Curly curls around memory,
slides into possibility,
flickers on what-ifs like fire on dry grass,
then leans close and whispers to me,
“See, I am every pulse, every fire, every ache.
We are alive. We are still us.”
She dances across caution,
rides the edges of chaos,
and I, calm, collected, grounded,
let her swirl.
Curly knows every risk,
feels every truth.
She burns.
I breathe.
I choose her anyway.
And together
we rise into the fire,
because this is living.
Hi Curly,
great choice of words and lines. Thank you for sharing your poem. For a poet appreciation makes to write more, and for reader to read and it becomes his virtue to appreciate to get inspired by.
Jessy Jacob.