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English Poems Poetry

“Is It the Place?”

Sometimes I wonder
If it’s the place which writes the poem
The last poem I wrote about you
Was written inside a coffee shop
On a wet and foggy Sunday night
While sipping steaming cappuccino
With drops of raspberry syrup
But that was long ago
Or so it seems,
When going outside was still something
To look forward to
When we still took for granted
The miracle of a simple dinner together
Coffee, movie, dates
Is it the time then?
Is it a specific month or year
A chapter in one’s life?
A historical event?
Is it these things
Which creates poems?
Maybe, what creates poems are entire universes
Every word, uttered by each slice of existence
Every rhyme, star-synchronized
Planets revolving, galaxies gyrating
Every image, sacred
An exactness in the drops of rain
The angle with which they splatter
On cold and damp window panes
The intensity of our pain
The throbbing of hearts and veins
The color of tomorrow
The smell of hope
The vibrance of air.
 

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