the slow art of breathing bitter

Burning Euphorie

I wish I could wave her back from the sidewalk.

I want to melt my everything in her pearl-white skin

and stay like that forever in the smoldering lampshade.

She looks back and freezes;

I wish I could tell her that

colors are brighter when she's around.

I hope she knows it.

Everything about her draws me and

I can't formulate that kind of gravity.

Everything about us deludes me—

How elusively tender as gentle rain rush like

the darkest shade of her ghost smile.

How hallucinating like

the memory that tastes like cold metal

on my sour tongue—a stroke of cigarette ash

along the curves

of Cupid's lips—time's ticking by.

My heart pangs when she walks away,

and I couldn't wave at her.

I wish I could tangle her in my arms,

and kiss her, my love.

A squeeze of igniting nostalgia

on the rogue razor cuts on my bare arms.

She once wished to draw a parallel portrait

of us together — stuck in the summer haze.

And she did.

When we broke apart, I hoped

at least the little goodbye,

dipped blue-scented melancholy—

will be the last string around our fingers.

We promised to continue saying goodbye

until today. Oh, today.

The mirror image of a deserted boy

broke apart through the open gaps

of the train window; red longing winter

through the curves of her lips—

The songs fade into it before exploding into black holes.

The flaws and ego run parallel, faster and faster—

Until the Spanish wind stirs the truth and burns our skins.

An untouched closeness that metaphors agonized hope

with our pitiful arms in the tender storms,

trying to find each other back.

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A/N: This chapter has three parts. A quick vote before you continue...?