Cold and blue, silver lining tragedies.

A cry of melancholia through your cracked lips.

You're sitting on the edge of midnight—

It's 11:59 p.m.

Your thighs are stiff in painful euphoria;

Gentles kisses through the smoke as your fingers untangle.

You're breathing mint in and pain out.

Lonely men gush out of the rolling train.

It's black everywhere—smoky black, charcoal black, jet black.

But there's one that only could see:

The shade of black of his tee.

The one he loved to wear and you loved to see.

Thirty-four seconds more before everything slips away.

It's ending—no more 2022.

And a weird feeling about him has got you.

The albums of you and him line through your shoulders,

down to your arms like the dark streets of your town.

You have spent months with him;

cafe houses, bookstores, and under the oak tree.

And it's been a day since you didn't.

But the butterflies constantly flutter;

You can hear those laughs.

But you know there'd be an end to your reverie.

The words won't come out of your liquor-washed mouth;

there won't be gray skies anymore—a few more seconds to go.

Before the lights would flash: 2023.

A sweet scent of sugar and nicotine.

You fear there won't be any trace of him.

After a few seconds.

But you believe there would be a dawn.

There would be yet another page of your poetry book,

a pleasant reverie out of green cobwebs; cold keychains;

and a new scent of sunlight and sweet mint.

You would dream of him even in ocean waves,

You would love him even if it's a new year (as always).

And memories would remain buried under lavender blossoms

under the bright moon even if he slips away or you do.

Because that's what you know:

People slip away, not the memories.

And you could never get tired of looking back and back.

It's just got no time to heal;

In the smoke of cigarettes and burning poetry—

There'd be an end to this midnight reverie

anyone has ever known.

It's 12:00 p.m. 2023.