Dear Azi, I'm full of broken thoughts.
My insides are like a box of matches.
The moisture from my sorrow, wont allow combustion.
I get up every morning with a tourniquet in my hand,
seeking the self in the vestibule of my childhood.
Your caveats no longer reach me.
But, the sweet carousel of your laughter still does.
Each loss is a new vulnerability.
A subscript, for a long past bludgeon.
The only whisper that still holds,
is the one that tells of your past love for me.