I’m picking up the pieces,
confused between ink and blood.
I’m told not to speculate.
Categorically some spaces can be filled,
if you try hard enough.
I’m dusting a couple of unmeasured words,
and a defeaning silence untouched.
I’m corroding all the dusty stories,
that you will never tell.
I’m waiting for a “maybe later”
knowing it will never come.
I’m folding all the memories pleated.
They were only momentary
but I like to exaggerate.
At least my thoughts are elastic.
You leave like always.
I don’t want you to, like always.
But I never really had a say in it.
All I wanted was to show you the moon in my palm.
I am now picking up the leftovers.
- The Lover @ Soul Intoxicated