Sleeptalking, cursing his name out loud,
spelling the pain in the arc of your scar.
And we weep, over the dead orchids on your birthday.
The withered shades of azure bleed in the sky.
You trace along the crescent moons across my skin,
but you don't ask me anything about them.
Instead, you kiss the freckles across my
collarbone as I shudder in the afternoon haze.
We planted a cherry tree on your thirtieth birthday.
Like another day, March fifteenth passed
away in a blur, like one of your cigarette smoke tendrils.
His name forms the shape of your maroon
lips; the stolen kiss under the oak tree, and how
you ran away and hid in the corner of the sunlit room.
Our mundane love fades away in the burst
of the red sky. The shades of blue have replaced
the greys across your eyes.
A lonely conversation remains unfinished
over your favorite chamomile tea.
It was another Saturday, and we celebrated your
birthday by putting candles on a croissant.
Sunflowers cry over the street blues,
and how the shape of his name deepens
the growing crescent moon across the inside of
my thigh. Your fingers don't trace it.
Rather, they tattoo a stencil of the broken sun
in the dim city lights.
Cinnamon flesh rots in the burnt afterglow
of your birthday.
He stands in front of you, with your favorite cake,
and wishes you a happy birthday, but instead
it crumbles into the paper-thin walls like another
stencil tattooed across your shoulder.
There's a mirror image of the blue birthday bliss.
We devour our pain when the broken sun
burns our skins, melting them away.
So I draw an echo of another crescent moon until the
ache dies in the silence of our bliss.