the slow art of breathing bitter

Fullstop

The camera flashes with a click: a riot of blue and yellow;

The young bicycles whizz past the house—

A gust of sharp wind, a quick splash of sun.

But it hasn't reached here. Me.

This's your town, the town of dashing heartbrokens,

That drink all night and drown in spicy cologne and rap songs.

And this's me who breaks hearts:

Like a brittle, blue porcelain vase,

dotted with tiny blue flowers that burn each night—

Until one day, the vase's broken into pieces, oh, bleeding vase.

The sun burns when it tries to reach my window.

A birdsong stops forever—a thousand birds' fossils

Pressed under the giant's feet.

My town's broken today,

just in the way I've broken those brittle hearts

That brimmed with hope and joy each time they saw me.

And today, I feel the sudden pull towards them:

A funny feeling deep down, but it's good; it's an urge.

I want to hear your words again

Near my years,

Like the autumn breeze brushing my hair off my face.

The photograph tears apart:

A white crease at their ends,

laced with thick cries and glassy emotions.

My world's upside down.

The sun doesn't set or shine,

The moon doesn't dance, nor do the flowers blush.

I'm too alone to live long;

Can you send me some words? Just for once? 

Let your words be my full stop.

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A/N: Don't we all crave to hear the voices of those again who we know we can't hear anymore?