Betrayers

I though my words came from the pink of the flowers.

I thought the smell of coffee gave me the letters.

I though the waves in the sand were my notebook.

I was so wrong.

My words walk between the grey of the clouds,

and they move with the cold wind until they reach my hands.

The letters don’t want the warmth of the morning,

but the loneliness and apathy of the night.

The cement between allies isn't alone,

my notebook falls in it once in a while,

determined to be stroked by my poems.

I thought my sighs stroked my cheeks,

not scaled them.

I though the moon was on my side,

not on my dreams’.

I thought my fingers freed me,

not trapped me in a constant yes or no.

I was so wrong.

I suppose it’s my thoughts

the ones that aren't on my side after all.