the slow art of breathing bitter

It's New Year

It's a call for New Year,

and I'm wearing yellow and green.

I still could believe it;

time's just made it to another ringtone.

It's a crisp morning tune,

pale yellow and a shade of brown—

a splash of sweet sunlight and your nicotine-stained shirt.

It's mid-winter; the city's near the fireplace:

Shimmering like a firefly in the forest.

The sun's out late, and I'm a chubby snowman with gloves and boots.

The sky's a little gray, and it reminded me of you.

Lately, I remember you more than often.

It's too bright outside for me to see you;

too loud in car horns for me to hear you say "hello,"

or to wave you back.

There's always been a shadow lingering between us.

Jet-black, foggy like morning smoke.

I can still breathe your warmth,

your shirt, your hair—

citrusy, sugary, grassy, and woody.

But mostly of love, exuberant love, rain-soaked love.

We left the glimmering town months ago;

We didn't text or call each other anymore.

Our cities are different:

Yours is grey, and mine is black.

But they both shine purple at midnight.

And we can see each other again,

we can hold hands together, wear our favorite tee,

and walk a mile ahead.

We can laugh and love,

dance and dream.

Alas, it was a dream dreamt.

A dream lined with sunflowers and lilac.

A dream I called my favorite;

the one I could cuddle with,

smell close and sleep with forever—

without you.

And my ink has spilled and got dried up.

I can't write anything anymore;

I know I can only dream;

our fingers entwined—

there can be us again

if my ink hadn't dried that day.

It's a New Year story buried in sunflower lies and lilac waves.

And it's still my favorite beginning 

to end at something new again.

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A/N: Am I late to post this? I guess not. But I'm missing something here. Votes, anyone? I miss seeing the stars happy lately.