the slow art of breathing bitter

(I think) This is a Love Poem

You spin around my head all the time.

Even if it seems I'm quiet, brushing the rim of my coffee cup,

I'm scribbling on waste brown pages in my head —

about the nights when we used to dance near the fire,

and the days when we used to lay on the meadow — a bucket of sunshine.

But today, I don't feel like burning my pale skin

for some teen runaway or exuberant heartache.

I don't want to cry in front of the steamy bathroom mirror,

with blood-stained blades and burnt cigars everywhere.

My thighs aren't euphoric today, nor are they oozing blood.

I want to wither away today, now, this very moment.

Not being insane in pain, but being patient with time.

It feels like one of the spaces between the lines of the dead poet's poetry

when you blur into the shadows of 12:01 p.m. and 

never return home again.

A loud orchestra of bleeding grief and snowclad poetry

floated above the silent sky. Too quiet to shiver,

Too delicate to hurt, but it did.

You broke my sky and went out of it, never returning again.

Had you turned back, you could've seen how broken

I was — that I forgot if love ever existed.

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A/N: What do you think exists as well? Votes, of course! ;)