Three hundred and eighty-eight days have passed since we first talked, three hundred and fifty-three since we last did; and I still don't know how much of you is real.
Are your eyes even blue ? How blond is your hair ? How much of all you said was meant ? Your lies creep around every interstice of our memories and every word you wrote, strangling the truth in a coil of grimy haze. The ill-mannered sighs I let out as you come in a flash, the fingers I tap nervously on my lap, the tears I cover with a yawn, it all cracks my soul up like steps on a fallen leaf.
Still I linger, tethered to an oath I have yet to sever, to the umbilical chord of my love; still I find, in the cracks of a raspy lullaby, the accents of what we once were. Still I weep, cradled and led astray, as I yearn for something I will never get: for I cannot mourn the petals of a frozen bud - nor can I forget.
YOU ARE READING
Petals of Dusk
PoetryHere are poems I collected for you, as a lousy bouquet of words, of tears and smiles, of thoughts and feelings, of yearning and resentment - I don't know if they will reach you, yet I feel like my heart and soul needed to be poured on those pieces o...
