the slow art of breathing bitter

Hope you find this one day

Dearest Belle,

I know I fucked up that night.

I can never call it a drunken mistake, for it wasn't it.

A sin I regret every second of my damn life.

I don't think we made it, Belle.

Even if it hurts, hear me out.

I'm happy to see you move on.

I have a room of my own now; our dreams

are treasured at one corner of it.

I have a few pieces of vinyl of yours I got to keep with me.

But I never really play them.

For they remind me of you, your ocean eyes,

you bare limbs and your sunny smile.

The thing I hate more than my sin is 

the version of me I could never be again.

There's only a part of mine burning.

There's no going back—before and after love.

But there's always been a space secured

for the fire to burn it along, for love's another tragedy.

This emptiness engulfs me

each day,

each night,

each second, oh, Belle.

The more I try to forget it,

The more it reminds me of you.

I can't just get over it;

The spaces between the lines are growing.

The time I said I didn't love you anymore

was the time I loved you the most.

But when things get to the peak, they fall down

the very next second.

You had that one part of my heart and burnt it, Belle.

It was like another cigar to you, and you blew the smoke away.

Why'd you done that, darling?

I'm never sorry for leaving you. 

For sins never come with apologies—

(not that you need one too).

I hope one day, you'll find this postcard

and not burn it as you did to my heart.

I loved your heart the day I knew you were

An ocean with depths of hell and heaven.

Each time I get to see your blurred picture,

I wish I could picture you in the green woods.

And like another folksong, you would

fly away into the lonely clouds.

I wanted to hold you close (oh, Belle) like the summer air (too delicate!).

But we ended up burning in the wildfire.

Had we loved each other to the moon and Saturn,

We had died—that'd have been a more peaceful torture.

And maybe life doesn't approve of peace at all.

Love (even if you don't love me anymore), 

Grey.

—————————————

A/N: Did you get any hint of this poem from my previous ones? Well, "Grey" was from the perspective of an anonymous girl, and this is from Grey's perspective, and we come to know that the previous girl was Belle. 

Like Grey managed to treasure a few things of his beloved, I managed to fill my bag with some lone stars (look at the top-right corner). Would you mind gladdening them? :)