on this day.

you were never mine but i still write about you on days like this.

lxxiii. YOU WERE NEVER MINE BUT
I STILL WRITE ABOUT YOU ON DAYS LIKE THIS.

i sit and feel the world spin,
left thinking of you in times where the sky
is left colorless yet extremely captivating.

you as you come.
you're empty but whole. you're loud screams in a world too quiet, meaningful whispers in crowds too loud. you're the bright yellow taxi that blares it's horn at strangers in a city full of dreams, but you are also the rain that slides down it's black tinted windows, the gray clouds that stretch themselves and lay on top of the skyscrapers like blankets.

you are everything and nothing at all.
cold winter nights spent by warm lit fireplaces and pink bubblegum being popped underneath a roaring roller coaster. petals holding on to droplets even though they are growing weak, the softness of aloe vera socks, rubber on open veins.

you are mine but you are not.
an image of you takes hold in my mind that i can not let go of. your voice talks over my own and i allow it for i love the sound of it. the ghost of what you once were sits quietly in the cobwebs of my head, my friends sometimes say i speak like you. my hand feels complete with yours intertwined, but when i look down, it's nowhere to be found.

you were mine but now you're someone else's.
i'm trying to be okay with that, for all there is to be, but this emptiness lingers more than what you are and what you used to be can't fulfill me anymore. i can hear him weeping in the back of my throat, echoing to the cavity of my chest, dissolving into stardust that still can't make me happy.

don't come back but just know,
you are all that is lost and everything found. i'm missing but you're too obsessed in the scene that has engulfed you to realize my disappearance. you are lost souls wandering.

you're the beauty in all that has gone wrong.