the slow art of breathing bitter

Summertime Sorrow

The poetry that once cracked from your lips,

Spilled from your tattooed shoulder blades,

and from your hooded eyes that could blink and breathe—

has stopped for a while.

The world's ticking away; 

The waves crash against the shore,

a dark feeling of euphoria.

Your mourn at silver nights

when your decayed bones get soaked

with thick liquid.

The thick smell of turpentine wipes away the cold warmth.

A shivering shadow lingers;

A cold hand touches your eyes and sets them on fire—

You're burning in avoidance, blue melancholia, and maroon desires.

The thick liquid has poisoned your bones:

The poetry has started replaying

like a pale yellow-scented 90s song.

The last half-broken rays of the diffusing sun

Now touches your limbs for the last time:

I've missed your blue-body scent.

The summertime sorrow is dancing in the electric haze tonight.

The curtains draw, the play stops—

you are standing in the dark in your misery

as they fade into the purple dusk

that has once colored your heartbreak with a reek of moondust

and taught you to stand up again.

–maybe it was all an inevitable meteoric haste

under the broad daylight, splintering away.

———————————

A/N: I hope the votes aren't splintering away ;)