Mounds of papers where you once confessed
about everything lie on the ground. They created

a stifled cemetery where each of your part
is buried. Scalded tongue. Ripped skin. Torn
ligaments. Everything.

These are the things I mourned
every morning despite having a cup of good
coffee.

Because midnight is already hiding underneath
the bed, and the trash had enough **** to eat,

I let them scatter here. Each, a tombstone
to remind you that you were here and that

midnight still hides from the light
in which it says that the darkness
is much more easier to be a home;

where being blind is more of a blessing
than a curse, thinking that maybe, a hint
of darkness would suffice the emptiness

because the last letter is still walking with you:

your smile, an apology letter for each of the time
our skin would kiss

again.