The yellow leaves
Sweet October breeze and the people on the road..
All following a pace.
I take a sip of my coffee and start counting the letters I have written for you.
*
You could have come back and felt my trembling lips.
I forgot your taste.
Or how your smell lingered around me..
The mixture of cigarette smoke and men's perfume.
Or how your touch felt like.
There were times when I didn't want to talk about it.
There are things we shouldn't talk about.
Things.
You.
*
I am 22 and I feel greyish old
The funeral sized silence
Waiting for empty nights to reply
Or words to tumble down with your voice
As a lullaby..
Im still not wise but reddish annoying.
*
My mouth now reeks of nicotine and alcohol.
Turned out to be a drinking song
With rum and shots and memories of love
Or
What I would like to call it to be.
*
Reaching for my pencil to scribble down the last good bye
Tearing apart the strings that held us
And the inter dimensional love that ate us.
Brown bread.
Honey.
3 am and your broken baritone was enough someday,far away.
*
You are there over the hills
My favourite paraphrase.
Soaring in between those soggy lines that I had written for you...
Kisses.
My legs pushing yours.
Little pictures.
In love.
Till I hoped.
*
22,still
Old.
Grown
Drunk.
Out of love.
Counting days..
Can you still hold me?
Or can I?
