a prose
I sat on a wooden bench in a small stall on the side of the main road.
It was rainy and gloomy. Everything became grey and pale.
All the blues swirling around me like a smoke of cigarette.
The smell of cold filled my lungs, tingling my fragile wall.
I languished, watching the rain wet the asphalt and the ground beneath me.
Soaking my soul and mind.
I found you in every corner of the city.
As if everything intentionally showed you to me.
What should i feel if you're exist among restlessness?
What should i do if everytime I close my eyes, what i see is the alley of time and impossibility?
What should i do if i hear your voice in every lyrics, verses, and chorus of my favorite songs?
What kind of effect is that?
It takes away my life everytime you cross my mind roughly.
I can't stop the vibration in my chest, knowing that i'm no longer your purest smile and your loudest laugh.
Your name cutting me then hitting me gently and the wound never healed.
Your face which displays the past,
showing rain
sunlight
stars
and the dark side of the moon.
You ransack my memory,
showing that stupid smile and ridiculous laugh,
then
brutally,
you hit the softest part in me,
dragging me with a series of drama that i am reluctant to remember again.
It's 6 p.m of Friday,
but it felt like decades.
Torturing me.
Great,
My world's broken.
YOU ARE READING
The Art of Us
Random❝ This is how i make the bitter look exhilarating. ❞ ❨#2 in Poetic Justice, March 2019❩ (#3 in The Cold, May 2020) (#1 in The Cold, June 2020)
