the slow art of breathing bitter

Maybe Failure can be True

How swiftly these nights fall apart.

Like the glass bottle spinning 

in the game of truth and dare:

Bottled-up screams, pangs through the hums

of the thin fog veiling the trees,

Slurry nights where the I-am-sorry texts scratch your skin

Like pieces of broken glass vase—

A burnt haze across the sky, and we're done countin' the stars.

It's always been you,

That I could ever think of:

In the smoke of the smoldering coffee,

In the crumbled papers,

In the loud breeze of winter,

In the yarns of the green shirt—

And that's been the only illusion I've been living upon;

Like a monument standing upon a heap of sand.

Never has my sky ever had any limitations;

You invaded into the ceiling,

And glued the stars upon it.

I stared at it for as long as I could

for it was like a diamond shinin' 

upon a tender rose petal

That now has turned into ash—

until it fell—a blur of brown and black.

Maybe, I was more afraid of you than the distance

Once you broke this brittle trust.

I was the wooden boat:

Each time you broke me,

The rusted nails fixed me,

But it didn't hurt as long as you stayed.

Until you went away and vanished like moonlight—

Maybe it was true because it was a failure.

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A/N: What about your thoughts? I very much want to hear 'em. Do you think failed love can be true love? Anyway, kindly fill the little star with yellow color! :)