Maybe one day I will wake up
having to take an extra second to remember your voice.
One day, I might just stop
getting hung up on ten little numbers I will never have.

One day, my eyes won't dart around in circles
looking for yours and one day
my heart won't tense up at the mention of your name.
But most of all,

One day I will no longer feel as if I have lost more than I have loved.

But till then,
amidst the pink and blue paintings of the summer skies,
I have stayed grounded
forced by the memories of your touch to keep me in place.

With heightened emotions and faulty desires,
I have become less than brave.
Cowering to the past,
letting the green grass stain my toes with their fibres—

I have let the sun shine on my skin without notice of its plan
to embed itself and linger a little while longer than it should.
I have let the thought of you shade my thoughts for ages,
and I know one day they will all disappear, disintegrate with the clouds.

But I'm a little bit lonely
with nothing but faded company,
so it shouldn't be enough,
but it might as well be.

gd

I don't understand what I want.
I feel like I'm cutting through a layer of thick metal,
enduring the sound of scraping steel scratch from surface to centre
and I'm not getting through—through to you.

I talked about him today. Embraced his disappearance in my memory
and seemed to watch him walk away all over again.
I was washed with emotion and serene understanding
of some in depth sentiment that I only found intact with him.

And it just ******* ***** because I acknowledge my surroundings—
they're printed and plastered all over in bright reds and yellows
making room for summertime without the sadness—
yet some void remains sat square in the middle;

Some lost hope, unable to make sense of what exactly belongs there.
And I'm cutting through layers of other peoples' minds
to see if their context can create art with my emotions.
But it's nothing but dull.

It's all surface and no substance,
which discourages the complexity of my being
and causes the wind from the outdoor tempest to reach
the ends of my eyelashes and the edges of my clenched teeth.

What I'm trying to say is, maybe I'm expecting too much from you.
I'm imagining mansions and kaleidoscope chemistry
with sparks sputtering out of my mouth
in the form of stutters and laughs that keep me breathless.

But instead, I'm getting dying embers,
that come from the scorching coal path of my memories burning beneath my feet.
I'm expecting too much, but I can't risk expecting nothing at all
for someone who can't even make my fingertips tingle or cause my heart to race.

Especially because I know the feeling of awe;
especially because I've felt it all before.

gd

I haven't even been writing for myself anymore.
Does that still make me a writer,
or an entertainer?

The most painful rejection
always seems to come from someone
who already told you they'd never leave your side.

You say
he made you feel like never before,
but so did alcohol honey.

I found myself humming again to the beat of nothing
and the birds are singing with me,
trying to control the pitch and find the harmony.

Recently, I've been on the outskirts looking through the
broken glass of other people's homes trying to make
sense of the dust that settles at the core but never
around the corners and it comes to my attention
that people do not thrive off of happiness,
but rather pain. At their most vulnerable
they are the most loving; but at their
least, they can be so careless, so
blind, so naïve.

gd

I wonder if you stitched yourself into my skin
when I wasn't looking because I am still catching whiffs
of your scent as if it sat right beside me
with a glimmering smile and kind words to say.

But I'm exhausted and worn out
like that faded red t-shirt you stopped wearing,
and I can't help but think if it's because my scent still lingered
when I first fit my arms through on that fall afternoon.

Except I know you've probably washed it
once, twice, maybe thrice for good luck
but unlike cotton,
your etched aroma isn't so easy to scrub out.

Trust me, I've tried.

gd