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The other side of the bed keeps mimicking your perfume/ and I color my hair different
shades of what could have been;
a comforting hug that you receive when you win your first competition at school/
A hug where two friends would make promises over burnt lunch; I would wait for you by the bus stand where our innocence started/
a love that burnt so fierce that it exhausted the strongest one in this relationship/
and there will come a day where when my hands will be covered in a mesh of dough and water, I will not miss you tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear and instead enjoy kneading/
but right now when you are not here, I am creating masterpieces that I didn’t know I was capable of;
the colors are melting just as my hair and I don’t know if I should make a stroke of anger or splash silence.
There are no more voices of our moans and my fingertips no more smell like you.
The coffee is a little bitter than you would like and the lizards that are eavesdropping on my pain are no more being chased by my own horridness.
I miss you; like a forgotten rat in a trap, you have tossed aside me like rotten dead meat.
A kind of rotten meat that produces fungus as if to convey hatred from self.
Now with greasy hair, I sit alone on your side of the bed and read messages that made us feel younger;
like a dog being chased on the kind of grass that would tickle your ankles; a burnt feeling that even sugar realizes before browning.
Is this what love was suppose to feel like? So fragile and weak like the parts of your body that no one else has seen?
The parts that I would kiss when we were alone; a carpet that I, now, peel away from my skin. This is my healing; my different shade of what could have been.
