the slow art of breathing bitter

Copper Dreams

I wish,

you could hear 

my nerves screaming

and my hollow heart bleeding,

when no words come out of me.

I wish you could turn back,

and smile like you always do,

and hug me, "I'm sorry, Lily.

You were right."

And the trees would sing green again.

But instead,

you look away

and sigh,

before walking away,

leaving the house, me, and us behind.

I watched you leave that day, and

remembered all our reasons

for loving each other.

I never knew you were so good at faking until now.

The vinyl plays in the burnt neon lights.

The potted lilac looks over—tarnished in guilt.

The lights went out just after I locked the house.

Your terribly-wrapped Christmas gifts stare;

Our spaghetti soup's left cold;

I wonder what would come crushing next.

Yet I still hope,

you know,

that I'm standing here,

and screaming out silently

(for that's our only strength)

That I still love you.

And there're plenty of reasons you should return.

I still imagine waking up with

your morning sunflower kisses

in the smell of daisies;

your arms around my waist, and me

devouring your subtle rips.

We'll leave for work

and I'd hum your favorite song all day,

till you'd call me.

We'd exchange 'I love you's before the world

would strike hard.

We'd go to the cinema together

in our favorite outfits.

You'd buy me cotton candy, and I'd kiss you.

Or maybe, we'd watch The Notebook

under the sheets till I'd color my dreams

on your bare chest.

My Polaroid stares back with 

a splash of maroons and indigos.

The picture looks like nothing picture-perfect.

An unfiltered embrace of swallowed stars

and marble-carved skin in the moonlight.

Nothing like the way we always thought

it would be, but that's okay.

The smile would still reach our eyes

and crinkle our foreheads.

We'd be beautiful in all the

cliche ways possible.

Nothing would be like the bloody ways

we thought we could paint our woes.

And I'll love you, darling.

Not to the stars and moons,

but to my copper dreams. 

Every second.

Every day.

–it's hard to breathe in an open dark ocean.

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A/N: Can it be that simple to move on? (Vote, please :) )

 © April 21, 2023. Sreeja Naskar.