I glanced at the scattered shells strewn across my bedroom floor.
Some months old and others only a few days.
I turned back to my cup, filled to the brim with a scarlet liquid that allowed my heart to seep through my fingertips. And my lips. And my texts.
My chilly fingers dancing across keys with the same enthusiasm used to grip the crystal stem. Currently, a make-shift rose.
Glazed eyes glide across the words that won't get sent. Many "I want to kiss you"s and "let me hold you"s and no- "I want you to hold me"s.
I drop the phone. Pick up a pen. Click with a certainty that I hadn't felt in a while. The ink stains through the tinted and yellowed pages.
"I loved you. Maybe. Not anymore."
I let go of the fantasy and sink back into the burgundy abyss.
YOU ARE READING
Writing by Rosé
Poetry❝Ripping roses makes you powerful and ugly all the same.❞ ❝There were moments where we just pressed our foreheads together and let our thoughts bleed into each other.❞ ❝I loved you. Maybe. Not anymore.❞ Thoughts that escaped while I was wine drunk...
