I still taste you in the back of my throat,
a firework of bonfire dust, lavender sprigs and cigarette smoke;
Yet now your taste has become hazed,
a q u i r e,
the past left abandoned and haunted by a mere spectre caged within the present memory of yourself, what with your now rusted lips and coal smeared hips;
You are but a floral corpse left staring with banshee eyes from across the street,
watching as I retreat back into the shadow of my wilted insides, rose petal heart browning under the scrutiny of your gaze.
Perhaps it was in the way you looked at me,
a sort of broken constellation glance,
azure eyes feeble and drowning within the depths of my unspoken sorrow;
perhaps in that brief, fleeting moment,
when blue poured into brown,
the carcass of your flowerbed being had finally been watered once more, sprinkled with the trickling realisations of my grief.
Of my reality; of my unrequited heartbreak.
Yet my tears caught only your weeds,
and it was then that I knew.
it had been what it always once was
for I had once loved you.
Perhaps I still do, of that I am uncertain,
but what I am assured of, is the fact that you,
you never did.
YOU ARE READING
spacejunk
Poetry'A lucid trip through the cosmos and constellations' ✦ · . ✷ ✦ ✦ · . ✷ ✷ ...
