June-November: Oh how you drown me in the deep blues of mourn, your letters petrichor the wet soil underneath the surface of my hazel eyes, every single tear reminds me silent wars of monsoon we had, cold yet bitter like the taste of those words carved in my tongue.
March-May: You'd cross and forget those days where it smelled like a bouquet of flowers, lingering in the calendar, instead you would act as a light in other days, not just a light that designs a holy path for my ivory lungs, but a light that led me following quaint paths of agony, drought, and sweat. I was waiting like a dog waiting for its owner just for you to ripe a new month of spring and joy while you made my lungs run out of words, you left like how sunlight vanished in my soiled windows, an utter that I choke in the depths of my tarnished lungs, oh how it hurts when my howls breathe fire and I spit out jewels.
There's a chamber for those sunsets, a spring whos breath no longer exits.
There's a chamber for those tears, a tarnished ocean.
There's a chamber for all of these
brutal months/years, a rotting calendar buried in my wound.
©sarah_
J