I still wonder how to calm my thoughts.
They sprint the tightrope with closed eyes,
remind me of every note screamed,
and bring me back to size.

Her passive-aggressive nerve.
How did I never swerve
and fill the forest
with my blood and good intentions?

I'd come home with a red rose,
or maybe a few.
The only sentence she could compose
was how my hands smelt
of feta and bleach.
There was no closure,
but I had no composure.
The secret is that I still don't.

I have no regrets.
But I still wonder pensively
why I haven't wrapped myself
around that alluring oak tree.

It's around 2:30 now
and a few years have passed,
but I still reek of feta and bleach.