the slow art of breathing bitter

Cerulean Apathy

I'm standing behind the glass of the ward.

You're a crumbled letter of apology 

beneath the white sheets.

The pale blue light hums another sweet note

of crushing peace.

The smell of antiseptics and chemicals

flow into the whiff of bitter soaps.

Your chest's falling up and down in a

tantalizingly slow rhythm —

and it reminds me of how our breath used to quicken

in the same pattern late at night.

We had our little world made of ruby-red

glassy fingertips:

Abstained breaths condense on the glass.

Your hands couldn't flap like the wings of a free bird

in the air;

clenched fists and loud beats fill the asphalt air —

Your teardrops soak the white sheets:

A scorched duality of eternity and infinity,

trapped in the city calls of skin and bones.

(That was another lullaby darkening the azure)

When you look into my eyes, I see green meadows

and wild horses — the place we fell for how young.

Your hand is placed in mine like another

mundane midnight inside a glass of gold wine.

I couldn't stand the smell anymore; it's not how you smell.

The color of your hospital gown strikes as apathy 

stuck between loving and losing.

I can't let you lose yourself in the in-betweens

I can never touch or feel.

Your smile gets smudged into the tick of machines

and your breathing, rolling around the oxygen tube.

Another moment is frozen in time — blinded by cerulean apathy.

There's a black hole in your heart where 

meteorites bleed carmine red;

it says nothing has happened.

Your faltered stories shiver in the weighing silence of winter,

crumbling like the falling shades of azure.

They sing psalms of devoured autumn sun and 

sunsets of heartache;

I know what our world was meant to be — falling like your

tired eyes: a void of apathy-struck colors between you and me.

The glass shatters into something I can't see,

like smoldering ashes, and

halts the heavy truth like a broken hourglass:

Everything's meant to be broken in ways more than

how it gets broken.

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A/N: It was so hard to write this without being able to let out tears. How about clicking the little stars at the corner of your screen to bring back joy?