in the morning, you wonder to yourself why you feel effusive,
and then you remember that you were left with nothing but melancholy.
he left you with pieces of yourself still under his teeth and you ponder why you feel so empty.
you always put fragments of your tumultuous love on anything else that ensorcelled you and yet you still question why you feel so vapid.
in the afternoon, you gaze at the gaps of your woven heart,
admiring how you still chose to love albeit it has been treated by uncouth and cantankerous men, grabbing your jagged edges and claiming it as a phantom's home.
walking home was certainly an experience for you, you were scrupulous on avoiding the cracks on the sidewalks because you were afraid you would fall too deep and wander around the empty hallows of quandary.
in the evening, you wear a careworn visage.
the efflorescence that you once desired for was kept untouched at the kiss of the pale moonlight, swooning you with every echo of apologies dripping down your god-forsaken body.
your heart, beaten and turned into everything sublime, is ensconced behind the walls, cosseting the bruises he had left you and not once did his eyes become rueful.
loving is a mixture of boiling thoughts and sleepless nights, a state of perplexities wherein you plead that maybe, just maybe, he still thinks about you too.
henlo stinky this is my first published poem here on this site (-: