《Silent Poetry》Nine Unread Messages and Seven Missed Calls

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I walk out of your house.

The air was thick and cold;

A loud silence trapped in my pale yellow mufflers.

I walk to my car

parked near the oak tree;

A thin layer of warm snow

cuddling its roof.

My arms feel like screaming

under the faded sleeves.

I don't feel like crying now;

My woolen cap's wet

in dark lies.

I wish I could draw stars

on the broken mirror,

and scratch my nerves,

and let my demon grab my heart

and tear it into shreds—

But I don't feel to.

I get into my car—

The steering is comfortably cold;

The window doesn't give me a view of your

still-hanging rock t-shirt I gifted you;

A sapphire song breaks your bone,

and you throw the cup on the tiled floor.

You can't fix the mickey mouse on it.

The weak fingers unravel naked emotions—

Under your black and white wallpaper,

And in the heat of the bathtub water,

Driving you insane;

Each inch of your skin tears you apart—

The oak tree's silent in the grey noon.

I can't think straight anymore;

I can't blink; it's too hard.

The iciness has replaced the warm memories

locked in the little screen, damn!

Nine text messages and seven missed calls.

I miss your voice,

I miss the awaken Sunday nights,

Clinking of glasses

brimming with wine

That burns those dirty clothes

that wrap around your mind.

An electrifying choke comes down

from your tangled brain,

through the clawed thoughts,

up to the burning throat,

and finally, out from your cool-scented mouth.

I miss everything not I've lost,

but those that have lost me—

I miss being my messy self,

I miss those "good morning" voicemails,

I miss wet rains and hot showers,

trailing down my body, easing my nerves.

My fingers brush the steering,

While your wide green eyes set on my diary.

Sixty-one unread emails,

none that belongs to our world,

Yet could change things in sixteen seconds.

This whole damn life got wasted,

Under your orange paintings

And yellow wallflowers—

I remained as the cowgirl, chewing a straw.

Seven missed "fake" excuses,

Nine "unreal" bloody messages.

Sometimes the oak tree

Reminds me it's okay to cry,

It's okay not to be imperfect—

To tattoo those damned moments

On my skin and hide them

Under my faded sleeves,

And a gentle breeze through the eyelashes:

A rare homecoming,

As I drive back alone.

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