Once I get inside my room

at the end of the day,

and turn the lights off,

I can smell the smoke unraveling—

the sorrow of fallen leaves

near her feet,

the bitter cries of crows,

the procession of despair and delight.

A faint blue light falls on my face;

my orbs glow in drops of blood.

The endless tales stir in the bubbles

of the smoldering black coffee—

you can't see them filling

the hollow spaces of your ceiling.

This broken mirror chases me every night—

no horror, no smirks, no fire.

It's just you.

The way you hammered my heart

and sealed a blank page:

"We can't keep this going."

And you took our stars away from me,

miles away from my catch.

The last thing I remembered right after that was,

Last night, you hugged me,

butterflies singing pleasure,

flies roaming in our little cozy room—

this heart, this human heart's

so vulnerable yet so strong.

It fills in something now and then—

just to empty itself again.

And one day, when you'll return to get things back,

you see this broken mirror:

A dead soul lying on the floor;

the bottled-up thoughts stained in its blood,

my favorite song is playing,

and the sealed page upon its face.

The coffee's stopped bubbling,

the smoke's thin now,

and the blue light has moved away.

You have reached your destination;

I'm the aimless soul near the window pane—

and the heartbroken in front of my broken mirror.