Mom once gave me a thin bracelet
with red and blue flowers carved on it.
I used to wear it on Fridays
as though threads of our sweet weekends were tied around it.
You'd sometimes kiss my wrist and draw
flowers around the bracelet with your favorite sketch pens.
The warm sunshine would peel off the walls around us;
the gurgle of greens and a tattoo etched on our future.
*
Dried sunflowers were pressed in between
the stained pages of Pride and Prejudice.
You'd sometimes quote Darcy, stroke my arms,
and draw stars on my favorite blanket.
And, like many other footnotes of your stories,
I've found my butterfly brain licking your sweet nothings.
*
Virginia Woolfe was our midnight tradition.
Her suicide note, burnt overcoats, and blue walls.
We burned poetry alive and breathed in the wood smoke.
Our bare minds would clog memories in the weathered moss.
Except for days when we couldn't write anymore,
You'd wrap me in your arms and color my town blue.
My brain matter sometimes died, especially on bleak Mondays.
*
The last summer on the local beach wasn't anything special.
Whitney Houston was blaring in the speakers.
The green paint of the wall has started to peel off;
The air heavied my eyes—carnations wither near our feet.
You wrote a story about two kids kissing
under a mistletoe, pretending to be lovers.
I laughed and kissed you.
Suddenly, the orange glow froze my inebriated mind;
You were too beautiful in my midnight dreams.
*
Our messages were short and monosyllabic.
Our plastic love consisted of scattered "happy birthday" messages
and "burnt Sunday coffee" selfies.
Another month passed by as the green paint finally peeled off the wall.
Merlot lipstick stained "I love you" in the bathroom mirror.
The last scent of Cupid died on a Sunday in the crash of a blue wave.
*
There were times I wanted to bury myself
in broken wine glasses and crushed cigarettes.
Your warm touch still slices my rotten flesh into pieces.
Heartbreak was bitter—burnt in the wildfire.
Our summer was haunted by ghosts of our past, mostly
summertime sadness and vanilla-scented car drives.
I wish I had something more colorful to hold on to.
– the mosaic of heartbreak bleeds on my bruised skin
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Poetry❝Like another silhouette washed in the blue of the November afterglow - a dying ache of living❞ ... || caffeinated afterthoughts and lovers' vomit ||
