play, pause, replay

burn in the blue

Atlas never went outside to see the

shades of nature, yet all he could

write about was nature's beauty.

The pixie lights create another dream, he would say.

The sky would burn in the massacre

of purple and orange, the birds would

fade in the smoke of the blue, and buried

lovers would come out of the broken 

skeletons, their bodies liquid gold.

Atlas once wrote a love song for me 

on a bleak Tuesday morning.

We were drinking wine at the back

of his old Chevy, letting the sun 

soak our skin in a weird shade of marigold.

Our lips were honey-dipped, and cherry 

cigars melted our merlot-tinted tongues.

He used my skin to bury in everything 

he said to me in my head.

And even though it makes no sense,

I can't help but overthink it now

beneath the blue of my oblivion.

We stand under the streetlight,

the small talk bleeding into the thin air;

July rips us apart from our frozen limbs.

And suddenly, the old brag of our hearts

grows louder and louder and louder.

Summer dissolves in our merlot-stained mouths

and we can't remember if it's the ashes or the end.

Atlas said he could never read his own works.

Because it made him feel like swallowing his vomit.

So instead he stands in front of the mirror

and lets the sun drench the cracks of his face.

"I've dreamed of drowning," he said,

tracing a familiar pattern down my arm.

We've lost May, we've lost June, 

and we're too close to losing July.

I hope we can burn the masks 

and look into the floor-length mirrors

and want to die but can't.

We lie on the grass and drink in the late sun.

The smell of grass, the salt air, and the last days of us.

The air is stricken with something so strong

that it makes the emptiness crawl out of my skin,

so slowly that it almost burns the path along it.

I put on a song from an old playlist I can't remember

and bury my face in Atlas' chest, hoping

that it'll remind me of who I used to be

before I had grown sick of loving myself.

━━━━━━━━━━━

A/N: Life's been a chaotic mess, and (honestly) it totally sucks sometimes. We spend so much time complaining or venting about it, but that doesn't really fix anything, does it? We're all just trying to survive the rollercoaster, figuring things out one crazy day at a time.

Lately, I haven't had much time to write new pieces. This poem is something I wrote a while ago, and recently I decided to revisit it. It's funny how you don't realize the truth in the idea that re-reading your work over and over can make you want to keep tweaking and adding layers to it until you're satisfied. This process has really opened my eyes to how a poem can evolve and gain more depth with each read-through.

I hope you find something in this poem that resonates with you. Thanks so much for your continued support; it means the world to me. If you enjoy the poem, feel free to give it a vote (but no pressure—only if you really like it!).

Affectionately,

Sreeja.