And if
getting over him
were as easy as
not making him the subject of my poems any longer
I'd be over him
by **now

All of the bottles were empty,
and so was she

Red* lipstick stains,
on the back of your neck,

I wish I owned that shade of red

The most beautiful flowers rot in our vases,
Our favourite candles burn to the wick,
we always end up destroying what we love most,

*nothing seems to be good enough for us at this point

cold winter nights,
wondering if it's smoke,
from the cigarette you stole from your parents,
or just the ghosts of our breaths,
seeping out from our lungs,
in the dark crisp air

The tears you shed,
are what drown you in the end

And my thoughts are a river,
that lead to you,
always,
because you are the most comfortable place for them to rest,
in the crease,
the one on the left of your chest,

but sooner or later,
it'll all be too much,
and the river might begin to flood