"I'm sorry, darling."
He says that every time he hurts her.
And it feels how tantalizingly fleeting.
These fainted lines of love
In the smoke of burning hearts
are so, so unreal.
Her bloodless fingers fade like
the lonely charcoal sketch into the summer air.
How heavy and citrus — smells just like him.
These make her dream things
that could never come out
of the little jar of hide-and-seek.
She painted better than him.
But all that remained was the
lonely sketch of fleeting passion
and a few scattered blue burns.
A desolated future painted in blue and black.
A youth soaked in rosewater and burnt orange.
A bunch of dry lilies pressed between the pages of a book, never-read.
The familiar smell, hushed wishes, and star secrets—
all sealed in her broken wine bottle.
Except him.
"Sorry" doesn't change
the exact way he left her—
A burning rush to run after him,
and say out loud:
"I love you."
But that's how it is—
Never being able to become
the raw colors of the sketch
After left broken.
–yet she waits under the tainted sky; their skins rotten
and the world forgiven by burning blue "sorry"s
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A/N: A flicker of hope has it all, right? Why not tap on the little star to make everyone fill optimistic in this room? Thank you!
©March 13, 2023. Sreeja Naskar.
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the slow art of breathing bitter
Poetryslow dancing love and pain in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green ... || a constellation of destructive poetry ||
