Defined cheekbones,
your shy smile creeping its way onto your lips.
The desolation and the lone;
it will consume us and tie us up like flowers in your ribs.

You sigh and I imitate,
you cry and I soothe you into tranquility,
that place where you often be,
like that brisk truck ride to that shooting competition you had.

Two seperate worlds;
me and my expensive hobbies,
you and your country activities.
"You keep making me so happy,"
that line you kept repeating,
taking its time to linger in the back of my mind.

Falling for you was unprecedented,
I felt so powerless, bringing out
a character I never knew existed deep within me.
But then again you cannot be predicted,
a solitary Sagittarius,
how am I to say no?

For you were the guidance to my piece of my mind,
the hollow space between my ghostly fingers.
On spur of moment, it took you away then:
Distance.

Hereafter, flowers I once explicitly planted in your ribs
shall wilt leaving nothing but scattered debris,
as new flowers of your future beloved will replace mine,
and you'll forget the truck rides just like how you forgot about me.

If they do replace mine, and when they do,
I hope their soft stems curl up ever so sweetly around your ribs,
tugging at your bones to outline their intricacies,
blossoming wildly to tangle themselves next to your heart,
where I once used to belong.

They would coil and twist and wrap themselves around you,
engulfing you in an aura of saddening gloom,
leaving you with a malfunctioning mind
so you could feel my pain this time,
as you forget how to breathe.