•••
I still smell the scent of your old
sweater like the moon drizzling in honeydew
of the Eucalyptus sky, while i am
stuck in the chamber of time, as it flies,
foot by foot in intervals, yet here i am,
writing about you just to past
every running second.
Call me dramatic, i call it 'normal' ,
a heirloom from heartbreaks
is a clear voice.
You are the delay in my valentines,
my halloween, my spring,
and in my hibernal breath
of memories.
I like to swim in the pit of
the void of your collarbones,
it almost makes me feel like one of your
books sitting on your shelf,
i know i am not readable, for
your love in my world,
speaks a foreign language;
a hush of blinding pride.
My first 'yes' was to live
and to trust you, a vow
from every shivering bones
in my body, to kneel beside
clavicles in the church pews of
your blond ribcages.
Dear C, do you know
the pain of swallowing
a chroma twinkle, a star shimmer
iridescent glowing in
the starry night
of vortex, a droplet
distortion due to
cinnamon heartaches,
a paper tear to my wounds,
a cardigan that shows off
your collarbones won't help with
the purple mist of melancholy, yet,
i'd say yes whenever you'd come back
again in my house, drunk.
You are the devil's
angel, you really are, a
black miscellany forming
on a frosted cry of mine
that you think of as 'emotional'
a holy grain to the shrine of
sombre music
of my weeps and sorrow,
a snowstorm of a
color riot between halo shadows
leaking kaleidoscope silhouettes
of my shriveling
sadness growing
on me.
So here i am,
writing about you.
•••
©sarah_
J