I put you myself
in solitary confinement
by building walls
high enough to keep
most people away,
but then there are some
who keep climbing,
thinking there’s
something beautiful inside
only to find out it’s a mess;
weeds lay here and there
which might blossom into
flowers one day —
but not today.

So you stayed just
like the girl sitting behind
the window in her room,
waiting for the plain sky
to turn into a sunset one.

I tell you that,
like the plain sky,
the grey is all I have to give
and late in the night,
when I am almost asleep,
you write four words
with your finger
on my open palm —
one by one
spelling out each letter
slowly,
clearly,
“Your grey is enough”

And a lone tear
makes its way out
carving a path on my
frail skin
and I hold your hand
thinking if
I am the graveyard
you will be the green grass
and our love
will be the flowers