the slow art of breathing bitter

Cold Cashmere Sleeves

It's been a while since I have been in love with you.

Yes, you — only you.

The sad boy with a broken heart.

They say never to love a broken person.

Because once you fall, you end up getting hurt

while trying to fix the broken.

I wonder if mess can be a miracle.

You're the broken boy,

I'm the rising girl—

but we reside under the dream-clustered sky.

You don't believe in things that I do,

You don't like the things that I do,

You bring out the worst in me,

I bring out the best in you —

We both know we're indifferently different and insanely sane

for each other,

and that makes us perfect.

They say that fire can't touch ice;

I believe we can touch each other's souls.

You draw pain,

I color sorrow;

we reside beneath the cold sleeves of lilac cobwebs.

This sunset says something else —

controlled chaos, aching new love, growling warmth.

If you cry reading my books,

If you stand at the platform to witness the naked nemesis

of summer air in the pores of her thighs;

If the blackbird's cry pains your heart,

If you feel happy when butterflies from your garden light their room —

Then for the sake of the butterfly's wings,

be that, darling.

The weight of this void world

runs crazy under the daylight;

My razor cuts never disappear — they grow with time.

But sometimes, only you can heal them.

You're the melancholy melody of happiness.

I bloom in your music,

You grow in my love.

Isn't that enough, darling,

to love each other?

You can't make it happen

over the bent cries of the blackbird

or the yellow dust on the butterfly's wings.

A gust of fresh rose air.

I take it in 

before it disappears

into my beating lungs —

Gray in fading remembrance,

Blue in poisoned love.

But love it is.

A handful of sketched portraits

And fading embers of your green letters.

You pull down

the sleeves of your cashmere;

You want the eyes to find them —

until you found me and let me touch them.

Touching you was like tracing

the same lines

of my favorite poem 

with my ruby glass fingertips,

breathing them so close to my nose —

salt as the seducing waves,

dreamy as the dead, dreamless night,

feeling them so close to my starved heart.

I wanted to live in the story,

You wanted me to live in your life —

and so it began.

It makes me wonder sometimes,

why can't we love those broken pieces again?

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A/N: And another story begins! How about a vote for happy wishes?...