the song of you is stuck in my head
and I find myself humming along in inappropriate places
like funeral halls and burial grounds, sites where I should have left you.
the lingering of your musical notes causes me to swat the air around my head,
and it looks like I'm dancing with a ghost.
I promised so many sunrises that I'd wake up humming a new song,
because the birds are so tired of singing your tune.
but your voice repeats over and over in my head
and suddenly I'm singing of constellations and summer nights,
the taste of you under street lights,
our complex simplicity that I've tried so hard to forget,
and of death, my best friend the reaper,
the one who collected my soul before I could offer it.
the one who ate away parts of me I didn't even know existed
until I could feel the void leaving me
empty.
YOU ARE READING
The Anatomy of Wreckage
Poetrya collection of poetry and prose that focuses on dissecting the ruined parts of me. this collection is unorganized and unstructured as it is ongoing.
