My eyes have yet not turned black and hollow
in my search for you.
The suicide notes lie near my flip-flops.
Cigarette smoke dries my tears in a way you never could.
Your favorite blanket's left aside; it's too cold here.
I'm on the brink of escaping to you and never returning.
Poetry slips away like the last train whistle;
A splash of sunshine and a plain white death.
I'm no lover to crush souls and heal them.
You're no poet to smell lilies and love again.
Yet, we do.
(Game theories and miracles sometimes envy each other.)
It's not time, darling, it's our world
that conspired against the beautiful chaos.
I'm still struggling between despair and delight:
When dewdrops will kiss the roses,
When the dawn would break near my window,
And the cremated hours will wake up—
Once again, I will find my lost love.
—————————————————————————
A/N: This poem's a sequel to one of my poems (already posted). Can you guess which one? Besides, I'm enjoying hot chocolate now. Want to enjoy that too? Then obviously, a sweet vote can gift you hot chocolates! :)
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 ||
