It's still there in my woke---
The feeling of wanting and missing,
Memories carved in sunrises, lingering;
LANY's music from my brother's bedroom, playing;
My heart lets out pain of remembering
Even my cup of coffee reminds me of you,
Like your smile is inked, in my mind, tattooed;
The smell of seven am is never new ,
As it's usually the time of me, kissing you
My eggs and bacon are still warm,
But it's not even the same when it's you that cooked it, damn;
Tell me, is it because my breakfast is overcooked and burned?
Or it's just that, you're not here to make it taste good?
YOU ARE READING
what's left is ink
Poetry"a collection of love that turned to inks and of heartbreaks that turned to burning poems"
