Your eyes have been (un)focused on the same yellow flower for the last two hours that you've been crushing between your fingers, hoping the yellow paints the red dripping from your fingertips with the colour of hope. You are on the cusp of what was and what will be, and you're hoping the petals will give you the answer your heart has refused to accept. The petals are dying a slow death between your fingertips, and you keep wondering if your heart felt the same between his. If these flowers could sing, yours would be an elegy, wrapped in your own words, or maybe his' echoes(?)
There's a rancid smell in the air and you don't know if it's the flower that's losing its fragrance or if your body is too tired to hide your rotting dreams anymore. The wilting brown petals remind you of your face as you stand infront of the mirror every morning pouring bottles and bottles of concealers over it to hide your desire to drown (in your own tears)...
You can taste the putrid smell of the dying flower, but not in your mouth, for your tongue is still busy reminiscing the taste of his sweet lies, but on your skin, where you are scribbling poems after all this time, hoping he would learn to read someday- for your heart has refused to accept that your words aren't incomprehensible, but written in a language he's unbeknownst to him. He doesn't want to make the efforts to learn the letters and you wouldn't stop writing them even though you are running out of space...
The yellow on your fingertips has turned brown, and hope is hiding behind insecurity like a child who is uncertain if it's safe to accept the chocolates from the stranger. What if it has poison? What if it's you that's been the poison all along? What if-
- Ish, flowers look good when they're tucked behind your ears love :)
YOU ARE READING
Reverie
Poetry~ if not between the lines, where else can I find my peace? ~ Trigger warnings applied || Poetry Collection ||
