I'm sorry courage took a longer time for your hair to grow out past your shoulders
Maybe I regret the coveted gazes that took residence in the threads of your muscles now precinct, hardly noticed nor remembered
You're the seventh page of my diary, as well as the eighth, the ninth, the tenth and it goes on till the edge of this cliff you call home
There are things I don't know why I do
Like the time I gave myself bruises on my shins just because I liked the colour
Has anyone ever thought of how bruises are actually a metaphor of everything unsaid?
Capillaries bursting under the surface of your skin and not flowing, like the words that ride in submarines in your head but never brave enough to say them out loud
Things sound nicer when they come from your lips anyway.
I laugh too much
Is the passion carved on your skull as deep and carefully thought out as the things you say?
Warmth from you is as untrue and synthetic as your boxing gloves strapped tightly on
Punches with the soul of death, you pretend your stares are empty
I’ve watched sunsets more times than I have seen your smile
The darkness that swallows the harbor isn’t something we’d talk about over steaming cups of coffee
I don’t drink coffee anyway
I heard you make lovely icy rainbow popsicles and hand them out at barbecues
But nothing’s colder than your hard gaze, as hard as your cheekbones
I wish you’d grow your hair mid-back so you can finally braid it
I am not so sure what waiting is supposed to do except breed hope and a whole lot of misery
Silhouettes are me and you and everything intangible, just like me and you and black and white, just like me and you
I am in love with you but I do not love you.