For the last time let me linger through those memories
That ruined my peaceful evenings, stole my slumber and infused the resuscitation of my long forgotten dreams.
I need to let the afterimages burn in my tired eyes, one at a time,
Until it causes fire within my rueful stare
And only then will it turn into dust.

And if the dust must find a home behind the comfort of my heavy eyelids,
What cruelty must it try to convey?
I will wash myself free from my beloved agony
So that my arms will eventually untie itself from this forlorn fantasy.
The gray clouds will soon pour tears down into the earth where I scrawled your name.

I will send away my disregarded affections in forms of stardust with every step I take as I walk away.

These mental movies playing in subdued technicolor;
An entrapment that seduces my entire consciousness like a glimmering silverware under the sun.
It has kept me enthralled, convinced me to strip myself out of my worn out realism,
Then lead me through a journey that is neither truth nor a dream.
These constructed storylines which overpower my will to resist,
Leaving me no choice but to surrender upon its bittersweet, artificial melody.
How tempting and dangerously self-depreciating it is to let myself be consumed by an illusion's thorn-filled embrace,
Emphasizing in persistent bold letters the cruel honesty that it projects.

"I could have been yours."
A mental script that echos in her mind throughout her solitary nocturnal escapade.
A  combination of five simple words that is strong enough to freeze fire or liquefy a a neglected dream.
The perfect conclusion to justify a tragedy -
A tragedy so pure and so close to being a sunset-filled day in between the lines of a fanciful short story,
Yet it also cuts a beautiful outline of its history through her tongue.
It pierces through her skin like fangs of a tormented beast.
A carpet of shattered glasses rest under her bare feet,
He was not there to close the colossal distance that appeared in between.

You are no longer my strange angel.
Every step that you take narrates a story that I am no longer part of;
The sound of your footsteps shall no longer affect the rhythm of my heartbeat.
You may look away whenever you want and it shall never make me shiver.
You may spit sunlight from your smile and it shall no longer hurt my eyes.
You no longer have the right to cause such blood rush in my veins.
You no longer have the key to unlock the room on which I wait.

Sunday Morning means being able to walk in the middle of the road with less chances of dying.
If not for the few people standing on the sidewalk, I might have danced.
I whispered spells to wet pavements and bathed in the warmth of the street lights.
The puddles of water were my mirrors, set to reflect the crying sky.
I conquer the streets while everybody sleeps
Until the sun hangs whole, chasing away the pink dawn lights.

Her heavy eyelids, her mouth shut tight.
A stare that could pierce through ribcages, through pumping organs, through spine.
Her lips were stained with an artificial tint, the same warmth of her own blood.
Her every step was guided by a strange beat of dark chocolate-flavored symphony.
She was there, and not there at the same time.

Venus burns like hell's fire.
When she ran out of tears, she turned into ice.
It was the same dark cloud that found a home in her brain.
It was the same garden of cacti that hangs in her hair.
It was the same piece of rock that blocks her throat.
It was the same mess of dead butterflies, trapped in her lungs.
The only difference was that she finally learned how to dance.

Just when you start to think
That the storm has died,
With just a spark of fire,
It bursts. It flickers.
It has come to life.