Trapped in a time loop
where all that happens is you
coming to me, kissing my feelings with your smile,
then crashing me
and leaving me there
with my naked hopes
hiding in the deepest grounds of my heart
again and again.

I am the prisoner of my own deathly wishes,
of the same repeating illusions,
and your voice in my head
is singing the same song on repeat
like a broken cassette
stuck in this old, rusty radio that is my mind.

I am trapped in a time loop
and all I do
is getting lost
somewhere on the paths of your soul
where my dreams get born
just so they can go to die.

my hands would like to thank your hands
for the time we were drunk out of our minds
but your hands knew enough
to hold, not grab
to hold, not push
to hold,
and hold on.

my hands would like to thank your hands
for being constants, not variables.
for having a thermostat so perfect,
holding hands is like entering
a fire-warmed cabin
after a snowstorm -
and you’re the only light around for miles.

but most importantly,
my hands
would like to thank your hands
for keeping other things from my hands;
things that shouldn’t be found in hands,
like the last cigarette
or a sharp pointy object -

and the last time
it was desperation that
got the better of me;

and not your hands.

Magenta:* like the dress
I wore on our very first date.
Hem, fluttering behind
The awe on your face, in your eyes,
Found something, I wouldn't now find.

Lavender: like the smell
You said intoxicated you.
Face buried deep in my neck
Eyes close, my hair tangled around,
At your fingers' call and beck.

Periwinkle: like the blue of your eyes
Shining like stars in dark.
Bright guides leading the way
Blinded, I followed till the end,
Now lost, even during the day.

Lilac: a single flower
"Because you're the only one"
Crowd isn't needed anymore.
My search ended on you,
Trying hard to be your one, two, three, four...

Amethyst: my birthstone I said
In between your laughter.
Waving it off as "all the *******"
We can't in stones, or lives, or signs find,
Something as simple as our hands' fit.

Violet: like the sky
At twilight that day.
Laying on our backs,
Reaching out with eyes, what cannot be with hands,
A lone cloud, drifting, with a silver crack.

Purple: like everything
I said and giggled.
My pendant, in all hues
The curtains, the pillows and the sheets,
Your shirt, my nails, the slight bruise.

If you fall in love with a writer
Be prepared for heartbreak.
Those writers, they are hopeless romantic.
They love, not just with heart
But body, and soul; They love
With their words, and all things old.
And yet, they do not know often
How to use those words, unless through a pen.
Their silence will hurt you
Not once, but over and over again.

If you fall in love with a writer
There is no happily ever after.
They'll push and pull away from you
Those writers, they'll run and hide.
Then write about you, for you, only you
And arise; But it's a vicious cycle
And you cannot get by.
For some writers do not know happy,
For others, ever after is a myth.
They know their hearts, but not their minds,
I apologize but it is the bitter truth.

If you fall in love with a writer
Be ready to live forever.
You become their only words
And their words become only you.
Pages after pages of them inked
Maybe, a spoken few.
Whether you will it or not
You're their only truth, all else is a lie.
Because as the saying goes -
*"If a writer falls in love with you,
You can never die."