the slow art of breathing bitter

An Unsent Letter To Lily

Dear Lily (my sweetheart),

Is it my fault that my brain couldn't process anything around you?

Is it my fault I couldn't stand seeing you and Grey together?

Is it "just a matter" that I see us together between a butterfly moment and dying eternity?

I don't know what else to ask.

The pendant of oblivion hangs low on your collarbone—

Memory, like another sweet blasphemy, crumbles

in the slow moonlight, dark and silent.

They say I'm too obsessed with nonsense;

I am insane about thoughts of you that

prick my head like tender thorns and bloom in the bruises.

But do you remember?

The conspiracy of sins and secrets, folded in velvet,

crashing in the shades we dreamed of all day.

The cleft in our trapped moments behind the green glasses,

And the streak of light burning beneath.

Honey, torture has always been planned for me.

Your Mom herself gave my death sentence how easily.

(They knew everything, yet nothing.)

I was supposed to be your maid's-in-honor;

You were about to wed Grey in Essex and be Mrs. James.

My death took place in Essex.

The colors on the butterfly wings are fading in the autumn wind.

The sky's yawning orange—a little while to fly away.

Poetry spills colors from your lips, bright wine red, no filters.

And like another snap of sunflower laughter, the scars grew faster.

The sun shone behind your eyes, and I saw lightning and thunder.

It's your marriage today, Liliana.

Giggles bubbling in glasses of expensive champagne;

White flowy gowns fluttering in the rose-scented breeze;

Flowers and greetings shading the golden walls—

Butterfly moments now flap in the dead shades we colored once.

I was supposed to be happy for you, Lily.

I was supposed to be many things I didn't want to be.

I couldn't be—for hearts can't always follow the right direction.

My life, my darling, time's fleeting fast.

The taste of your lips is staining my eyes constantly.

Memories are salty, like your afternoon lemonade.

"Love" is now a stashed secret, a familiar aching and stabbing twist.

Destruction never has words—it creates history.

They think I have a disease—that I'm psychotic.

Maybe I'm—perhaps I'm the only cleft beneath everything.

But above all,

I'm in love with you, Lily, can't you see it?

You're blindfolded in your "Grey" world, Lily.