A dried rose pressed between the folds of the diary;
An unfinished story
of loss and love.
A red river runs beneath the poisoned bodies.
The shades of blue never appeal the artists;
they're nothing without you.
I miss the smell of cinnamon and love.
Are you faraway?
Come meet me, someday.
We will talk about pain and pride.
Come back, honey; we will fall in love again
on a not-so-beautiful morning,
wilting away in summer bloom
in the middle of scorching kisses and stealthy goodbyes.
------------------
A/N: In the absence of sweet memories, I can only offer you this beautiful vote button :)
YOU ARE READING
the slow art of breathing bitter
Poetryslow dancing love and pain in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green ... || a constellation of destructive poetry ||
