You keep looking at the rose your lover gave, your fingers wrapped around its thorns, mesmerized not by the beauty of the rose but the thorns, writing poetries on your skin, carving it's existance in your pain, just like your lover does. Your eyes follow the blood slowly trinkling down your wrist, you have forgotten when was the last time you noticed a flower blooming, instead of waiting for it to wither and die. There's a reflection in the pool of blood collected at your feet, something you recognise very well. It's withering and dying too. Perhaps, you are waiting for it.
The bitter taste of their love still lingers on your tongue. Everytime they take your lips between theirs, the putrid taste of death and despair fills your mouth, and everytime, it makes you forget how Love is spelled in your tongue.
One by one, the petals drifted, forgotten, fading from red to withered brown, from love to despair. You kept clutching the stem tightly, hoping it would stop it from wilting- from dying- from leaving...
-Ish, wondering if the stems would carry the blood from my veins and paint the rose red...
YOU ARE READING
Reverie
Poetry~ if not between the lines, where else can I find my peace? ~ Trigger warnings applied || Poetry Collection ||
