the slow art of breathing bitter

What 'bout you?

Little Lily, Grandad's no more.

August is something I couldn't feel anymore.

My skin turns pink in the drunken heat;

Sweat clamps at my forehead—I wipe them away.

A single bead of sweat trails down my scar

like a rhapsodic melody at a funeral.

I fake a smile at the aged man at the bus stop

and sit beside him.

He reminds me of you in your white striped shirt.

The way you smile in my lucid dreams

and kiss my temple.

But there's always a silhouette of nonsense worry beneath your eyes.

Home isn't the place I can breathe in August.

My eyes beg for sleep, but it's too cold here.

The medicine glass bottle turns blue in the sunlight.

Quiet, too quiet, the voice stick to the walls.

The scars still feel numb when I move 

in my olive, rain-soaked dream.

Your shirt's tearing apart—your ribcages sketched in darker shades.

Our shadows can't come closer in the moonlight.

I'm tired of sanity running through the veins of

our plagued limbs; mortality is another lie.

Your bones are yellow in the closet,

soaked in emptiness. 

The liquid in the bottle turns bitter—another slipped silence.

It's all my fault, isn't it?

Our lies were naturally toxic and disturbingly perfect.

They were inhumane, cold in summer shades, and

bitter in candy sprays.

Strangers run past us with low whistles and whiny calls.

 They're running to their home, their safe place.

It's so chilly out here; your roses are wilting away.

I was blind, dear Gramps.

Perhaps, we all are in the bright August light.

I was too naive to notice the glass bottle on the top of your shelf.

Boys laugh in the pool; girls bask in the sun.

A riot of yellow and blue. Black.

You're there again, calling me.

The city lights start flickering again;

I'm reminded of infinity—fake.

Lily Bear, Lily Bear, Lily Bear.

I run to you—the daylight melts away in a splash of sun-soaked water.

Your hair's flying back and forth.

Blood stains on your white collar;

Your butterfly wings are dead today—dead in the dove.

I could see your pupils turning dark—you okay, Gramps?

Lily Bear is with you. I always am.

And now, August's another sad song torn in the cratered moon.

I can't speak or sustain or smile.

You were there the whole time, Gramps.

You promised the world to me.

How could the stars go wrong?

How could the faceless truth get crooked?

The flames did engulf you, I dreamt once.

The white lilies still bloom in bruises—I painted once.

August a savage metaphor between the symphonies

of love and loss, 

pride and pain.

Dream and death—my favorite dichotomy.

But you?

I couldn't see you. Gramps?

I'm here, Lily Bear.

You are smiling at me.

Infinity and the spaces between your words

spill colors from the midsummer nightmares and cries.

My Lily Bear.

Your caress, you making me pancakes.

Our gentle kiss on rough days.

Gramps—

Blink.

Blank. Black.

(You weren't here all along. Periodt.)

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A/N: Guess, (kind) yellow stars are here at least... :)