Your love was
collecting words.
On every night
you would say I
love-, I would
be looking at
your bottom lip
trying to catch
the YOU before
it drops down
unnoticeable into
the burgundy
sheets, like a
whisper of an
unspoken sin.
Your love was
clutching my fists
at my side, and
saying he loves me
when your hands
were planting
roses in an
another woman's
breasts.
Your love was
scratching myself
bloody, to peel off
the saliva your
tongue left on my
skin, on the
day you taught
what a mouth was
capable of doing.
Your love was
laying on my back,
and pressing my
right hand on my
heart and
whispering don't
let go, just yet,
when you give me
every reason to.
Your love was
a poem written in
a foreign language,
for no words of
my mother tongue
agreed to tuck
you in.
Your love was
swallowing the
little bits you
threw at my way,
and replaying
over and over in
my head that it
was enough, so
my stomach
wouldn't ask for
more.
Your love was
Walking away,
and leaving
the door open,
fully knowing I'll
come back just
to walk out once
again.
YOU ARE READING
Silent whispers
Poetry'It was as if I could see him, touch him, but never quite reach him. He was a dream, a secret, a promise.'_Aya #44 in poetry on 23.8.2018
