I still smell the scent of your old

sweater like the moon drizzling in honeydew

of the Eucalyptus sky, while i am

stuck in the chamber of time, as it flies,

foot by foot in intervals, yet here i am,

writing about you just to past

every running second.

Call me dramatic, i call it 'normal' ,

a heirloom from heartbreaks

is a clear voice.

You are the delay in my valentines,

my halloween, my spring,

and in my hibernal breath

of memories.

I like to swim in the pit of

the void of your collarbones,

it almost makes me feel like one of your

books sitting on your shelf,

i know i am not readable, for

your love in my world,

speaks a foreign language;

a hush of blinding pride.

My first 'yes' was to live

and to trust you, a vow

from every shivering bones

in my body, to kneel beside

clavicles in the church pews of

your blond ribcages.

Dear C, do you know

the pain of swallowing

a chroma twinkle, a star shimmer

iridescent glowing in

the starry night

of vortex, a droplet

distortion due to

cinnamon heartaches,

a paper tear to my wounds,

a cardigan that shows off

your collarbones won't help with

the purple mist of melancholy, yet,

i'd say yes whenever you'd come back

again in my house, drunk.

You are the devil's

angel, you really are, a

black miscellany forming

on a frosted cry of mine

that you think of as 'emotional'

a holy grain to the shrine of

sombre music

of my weeps and sorrow,

a snowstorm of a

color riot between halo shadows

leaking kaleidoscope silhouettes

of my shriveling

sadness growing

on me.

So here i am,

writing about you.