Half drunken
tea cups,
lips so dry.
Unlaced
shoes, and a
broken lie.
I count the
words left
before the
last poem, the
last line, the
last promise,
that will make
me believe that
there's no spell
capable of
making the
illusion of me
and you feel
a little bit more
real. For our
love not once
did it pass
the borders of
ink and paper.
I run my fingers
over the mist
of the window
in the shape
of your
name, to
remember
what it was
like to have
you against
my skin without
burning it.
I take every
paper with
your scent
on it and
put it on the
bruises you
left me so
my body
wouldn't
forget
the lover
who once
claimed it
as his, for in
the midst of
unfinished prose
and french songs,
we let reality pass
us by.
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
