the slow art of breathing bitter

Colorless

You know, you can tell me anything you want.

That's what they all say—that's what they think.

They think my life is another tale of dull aches and numbed burns,

now stitched in little rosebuds on my best friend's cardigan—

drying under the scorching sun.

They think I always dream of cloudy skies—slate grey.

My dreams don't have any color;

only clouded with marijuana in white matter.

Picotee blue dreams trapped in struggling flowers between pages.

We loved each other so much.

Max and me. 

They always snorted at us;

We were fevered in their black thoughts.

Another bunch of sunflower poems

and a gust of fresh air for our youth.

Like broken glasses at one corner of the porch,

we failed every higher step towards the azure.

Our long walks home yawned golden every time

he numbed away those hurtful words with his scarlet touches.

The rain comes pouring harder,

and I can't sleep without dreaming about

him; a newness in his winter songs—a speck of guilt and moondust.

They always think my life's a piece of shit.

Why do they think I'm mourning?

I only—I don't know—I could see Max everywhere.

In every green pullover, every whistling guy,

every winky face emoji, the green fields.

I can't help it—those memories burn like his touches.

I wish this pain to numb away in the

bright shadows of oblivion and crushed love.

Oh, Max, I wish I could stop writing about you.

Everything's bleeding in your memory, our love.

Your family's out there, laughing.

It's been years, Max. I could still see you walking 

down the street, whistling your favorite song.

Your green pullover looks bright in the flakes of snow.

Your hair is slicked back; you're smiling down at me.

I'm running at you; you're slipping away like the last sip of vodka.

Max, it's been years behind the curtain.

They never knew anything but those crooked lies.

My throat's night in untouched caresses;

Dead bodies, blind beggars, white noises.

Those black words in your notebook are out of place;

only clouds of smoke and red cobwebs.

Blink.

Blood. 

Red and orange.

Liquid blood.

...

...

Time's falling sand from her loose grip now.

It's no more dusk; our lifespan is the swelling flute

in the thick air—your scarred smile melts in my salty tears.

–you can't see or feel anything, but my heart will love yours forever and always.

——————————————

A/N: And I'll love my readers forever! You mean so much to me! And (maybe) a kind vote for the grieving narrator; I feel sorry for him/her :(