the slow art of breathing bitter

An Ode To Him

Dry leaves of autumn fall on the ground,

I turned around, hearing your footsteps.

You were looking at me with eyes blue in pain;

Your face wearing the unusual frown—

I know it was me who put it there.

I know I left you before the birds could open their eyes,

Before the patches of green could wake,

leaving you only a bunch of 'lovely' memories

of Sunday evenings, songs filled with tenderness, and our signature black coffee. 

You didn't hold anybody's hand, but only mine,

Until the stupid me dropped it mid-way.

I know I ran from the stony path,

we were walking down.

You kept calling me, yet I didn't pick up my phone.

Days and nights, the battles you fought:

Alas! I was desperate to ignore the golden things around me.

Can you trust me the last time, dear?

I only want you to let me try the last time.

The sky's still pink; the birds are yet to fly away,

The trees are waiting to be dark.

Give me a second chance to light this heart.

And the strand of bleached hair you would tuck behind my ear,

Sometimes smiling at me through the mirror. 

I still cuddle with your books and paper butterflies,

Your bedside clock and the poems you wrote.

I hope, someday, when you will forgive me,

We would glitter the walls of our hearts, again:

Photo frames of our memories would hang,

Diaries filled with spilled ink of the twenty days we had had

To make the rest feel whole.

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A/N: Let's wish for things to be better for the narrator. Till then, why not console her with some lovely votes?