the slow art of breathing bitter

Glass Jars

I want to wake up with you each morning

and treasure all my sweet bubblegum dreams

in the glass jars, in the summer stains on your shirt.

I want to hope for a dancing future

behind the picket fence—kisses and laughter.

Your idiomatic paradise behind our eyes.

Our fingers will brush each other: a mirror image

of everything unwritten, untouched.

How raw yet igniting it would have been

if only the blackbirds knew

how much I miss you.

The deserted faces stained in blue

gasps and tell tales of sighing love

as the train crosses my view.

They stir the wind along the curves of your ruby lips.

A new wave of gentle love through the burning edges

of the lining stories on the white walls of the cathedral.

I want to hold your hand forever

and want you to believe that we won't wither

away like last summer—never. 

I don't want us to stop

for we're re-writing histories in emerald ink;

A story of paper hearts and abandoned goodbyes

through the slamming door.

A long sip of wine;

no cries or scratches furthermore—

A green metaphor of dying love,

stored safely inside the glass jars.

Poetry plunges into the black depths;

The flaws inside us scream in pain.

We drop away, petal by petal—

You're sighing in a green meadow, me in black heaven.

Smoke rings of gentle love; 

we are lost in the glowing sunflower fields.

The daylight grows green; it won't end ever

like we sadly did.

—————————————

A/N: Ah, I hope the little stars don't stop spreading joy :)