Silent whispers

cinq

The boy who
smelt of candy
and everything
sweet, is slowly
starting to feel
like an allusion
on my bruised
fingertips.
And I can't seem
to stitch the
remains of what
we used to have
onto paper, for I
gave up my words
ages ago for a
whisper of his
touch.
His voice would
often knock at
The doors of my
sleep, and I'll see
him holding that
electric cigarette in
hand, almost
teasingly, as if he
was calling me
to him.
But he would blend
with the wisps of
his own smoke,
before drifting into
the void, like every
night.
It was as if I could
see him, touch him,
but never quite reach
him.
He was a dream, a
secret, a promise.