the suntrails cascade into the dusk’s curtains, freezing into the glaciers of the moon, kissing the awnings the dawn provides.

dead flowers turn out to be the same spot that buds bloom out of novelty-we’ve stopped picking them as much as we’ve stopped planting and making offerings out of their bouquets.

the gas tank was never filled up again, countless trips for love ditched.

these mattresses are made for and unmade by lovers expiring after a night;

the room has stopped reeking of regrets and leftover yearning.

though sometimes i still open the windows so as not to submerge in faded chances.

“but i could swear, your sadness still lingers.”