It's colder here, James.
You wanted to know how I was doing.
I'm all pink in coldness—my town's not crowded.
It's windy here, and so are people's memories.
They are burning like the filament
inside the hot glass bulb of turmoil.
I don't feel the warmth of candlelight anymore.
I play my guitar occasionally;
It seems like the town's brighter when
the acoustic tune touches the air,
and the skies turn peacock blue.
The grandfather clock starts ticking loudly,
and a riot of white and pink roses and tulips
crowds near my window.
Their smell escapes into the February air.
I used to smell them before,
when I was new here.
But now it's of no use.
I don't have to search for the path to my house
or the brown cafe that serves the best espresso.
Because I'm lost already.
And I don't try to search for anyone or anything being lost.
The streetlight flickers.
I can hear the high-pitched giggles
and vampire-red songs from the silence.
The kind of silence you find comfort in
when no one can listen to your screams;
when you can only hear the leaves sighing;
when you can stare at the fire for as long as you want.
A few things remain untouched all along.
They think it's the death of an old soul—
but the magician thinks it's a resurrection,
another new game, before vanishing in the orange fields.
A loud round of applause before I stop playing my guitar.
The kind of sound you don't usually get to hear
when you're in grief.
Do you remember James, what we used to think
back in our high school?
Grieving is a part of giggling.
The only difference now is that you can see
your eyes welling
in tears—joy or sorrow.
As you know, it never began
like I do.
You don't believe we ever began.
It's another grey fascination
in the golden bulb.
All you need is to collect it at the right time.
Love.
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A/N: I'm too unsure of this poem. Mind tossing a vote if you liked this?