"I'm sorry, darling."

He says that every time he hurts her.

And it feels how tantalizingly fleeting.

These fainted lines of love

In the smoke of burning hearts

are so, so unreal.

Her bloodless fingers fade like

the lonely charcoal sketch into the summer air.

How heavy and citrus — smells just like him.

These make her dream things

that could never come out

of the little jar of hide-and-seek.

She painted better than him.

But all that remained was the

lonely sketch of fleeting passion

and a few scattered blue burns.

A desolated future painted in blue and black.

A youth soaked in rosewater and burnt orange.

A bunch of dry lilies pressed between the pages of a book, never-read.

The familiar smell, hushed wishes, and star secrets—

all sealed in her broken wine bottle.

Except him.

"Sorry" doesn't change

the exact way he left her—

A burning rush to run after him,

and say out loud:

"I love you."

But that's how it is—

Never being able to become

the raw colors of the sketch

After left broken.

–yet she waits under the tainted sky; their skins rotten

and the world forgiven by burning blue "sorry"s