When the two of us once met,
it was an obvious accident.
A work of manipulation, luck and prohibition.
I obviously don't believe in that, luck and the other things as such.
I only know, when I met you,
the sky was dark, your eyes deep blue.
Your lips that shade of a dead rose.
Your arms were inked with pain and black.
Your hands were big, warm like the sun.
Yet your touch cold, just like your heart.
And just like that you broke my heart.
Now I'm sitting in the dark, writing you poems from afar.
With just your pen, wearing your shirt.
Just old memories of our lucky accident.
