the slow art of breathing bitter

Nine Unread Messages and Seven Missed Calls

I walked out of your house.

The air was thick and cold;

A loud silence trapped in my pale yellow mufflers.

I walked to my car

parked near the oak tree;

A thin layer of warm snow

cuddling its roof.

My arms felt like screaming

under the faded sleeves.

I didn't feel like crying now;

My woolen cap was wet

in dark lies.

I wished I could draw stars 

on the broken mirror,

and scratch my nerves,

and let my demon grab my heart

and tear it into shreds—

But I didn't feel to.

I got into my car—

The steering was comfortably cold;

The window didn't give me a view of your 

still-hanging rock t-shirt I gifted you;

A sapphire song broke into your bone,

and you threw the cup on the tiled floor.

You couldn't fix the mickey mouse on it.

The weak fingers unraveled naked emotions—

Under your black and white wallpaper,

And in the heat of the bathtub water,

Driving you insane;

Each inch of your skin tore you apart—

The oak tree was silent in the grey noon.

I couldn't think straight anymore;

I couldn't blink; it was too hard.

The iciness has replaced the warm memories

locked in the little screen, damn!

Nine text messages and seven missed calls.

I missed your voice,

I missed the awakening on Sunday nights,

Clinking of glasses

brimming with wine

That burned those dirty clothes 

and wrap around your mind.

An electrifying choke came down 

from your tangled brain, 

through the clawed thoughts,

up to the burning throat,

and finally, out from your cool-scented mouth.

I missed not what I had lost,

but those that have lost me—

I missed being my messy self,

I missed those scattered "good morning" voicemails,

I missed wet rains and hot showers,

trailing down my body, easing my nerves.

My fingers brushed the steering,

While your wide green eyes set on my diary.

Sixty-one unread emails,

none that belonged to our world,

Yet could change things in sixteen seconds.

This whole damn life got wasted,

Under your orange paintings

And yellow wallflowers—

I remained as the cowgirl, chewing a straw.

Seven missed "fake" excuses,

Nine "unreal" bloody messages.

Sometimes the oak tree

Reminded me it's okay to cry,

It's okay not to be imperfect—

To tattoo those damned moments

On my skin and hide them

Under my faded sleeves.

The scent of oblivion hits my nostrils;

Love's been a white line, screaming into the void.

And a gentle breeze came through the leaves:

A rare homecoming,

As I drove back alone.

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A/N: That was too long, wasn't it? Well, I don't know what I have been writing for the past few minutes—all that came down through my brain. Vote anyway, and I'll send you a nice little rose!