after the twenty-2nd
day, some things
came to be.

he was reckless,
heartless,
stupid,
yet caring.

he says rumors
weren't true,
that he has no one
"but i HAD you."

he says stories
weren't necessary,
that he was innocent
and he was pure.

he says it's not
like that, nor
like "this,"
that he was in
deep solitude
and no more
them's and you's.

the rumored newest
was a friend,
so sweet and lovely,
innocent and God-sent,
light and less fluffy,
tanned and less lonely?
no, less happy,
trying and striving.

she:
i didn't want to
dark-mind.
i didn't want to
self-harm.
yet, his words
contradict
what he does.
then...

endless trades of words,
of hurts, of trusts,
of pains,
rushed through
their typically untypical
veins.

murmurs  weren't true.

"not all you see is true."

why can't everything
be innitiated?
given at free will?
said with genuinity?
and done
with no rules,
no biases,
no implied philosopies,
no more laws?
as the sun sets,
from last eleventh,
she had begun
to be in deep
slumber,
she had been
lesser frustrated,
lesser stressed.

no more time
lesser will
no more hates
lesser tears
no more swears
lesser mistakes
no more scars
lesser darts.

falling out
of the stairway
was the most
hurtful thing
she ever felt.

worse than dying
worse than living
worse than worst
worst of worst.

everyday was filthy,
*****,
teary,
furious,
curious,
woe,
loathe,
gloat?

feli­citous smiles
bargained
additional lies.

feline's wet
with sweats
of the eyes.

doggo's dead,
by the hands
of her love.

he was lost
when she was found.

he's a walking
narrative
of us,
of him,
of me.

a constant,
living reminder
that love
was austere,
pure,
and no blur.

an unending
breathing story
of how she used
to love
and how he used
to love.

broken and ended
still and calm.

at first.

an entire moment
of silence
which led her towards
the art of perverse
glamour
lead her to bed.

there goes this
loud noise.

she witnessed it
with those two ears.

she heard those
smirks.

she lived her
love for that man.

she gave him
her everything
in return,
she received nothing.

a 2-minute call
wasted her two years,
wasted?
hated?
destroyed?
ruined!

he said
he hates her.
she said so too.
he said
he cant trust
her any longer.
she said so too.
he said she doesnt
understand him.
she said so too.
he said she was
really immature.
she said so too.
he said she never cared.
she said so too.
he said she irritates
him, a lot.
she said so too.

scared and crying
she apologized and
asked to make up,
he said so too.
she asked him
not to leave her,
he said so too.
she said she loved
and she loves him.
he said so too.

she was the first.

i cant touch the keys
i cant touch the strings
i cant touch literary
i cant touch eevrything
i cant touch them
i cant touch him
who once did,
i cant touch me.

"us"
at first, twas good,
me, him, everyday
is fun-filled,
so thrilling,
those enormous
subjective emotions
which rush from
his spine
to mine.

those vigorous
sweatful and youthful
days were lit,
firey, no trickery and mockery.

he doesnt understand
me before,
but he tries,
he says he'll try
and the he tried.

but now,
"us" came crumbling down,
too loud! too loud!
oh such a frown!

i dont know,
maybe i missed him too much,
not talking,
communicating,
seeing,
and smelling each others
scents and humor.
i feel he s moving,
in a backward and sad motion.
he draws attention,
that most cant do,
he draws companies,
that most cant do,
he is subjected to every crowd,
that most cant do,
even being stupidly being chased
by the homecoming,
that most cant do,
and even I cant do.

he ia far too wise
far too nice,
far too dark
and very apart.

he closed his doors
for my rants,
for my sounds,
for my music
words, and love.

i thought he is the one
and i still believe that
he IS that one person
who can share
these unapealing
sounds at night,
these unsightly
paints of gestures,
these seemingly
truthful facades,
these explicit and
exclusive love.

i wanted to go far,
far from where he belonged.
i wanted to go near,
near to where he resides.

i wanted to tear
this contract,
i believed, has faded.

now,
if i did do it,
what comes next?
sorrow?
this grief i must hold,
this woe i must cease,
this beauty who once
loved me i must leave,

either i disappear
or i will leave
this kind of habit
he became.