Dearest.
I had spilt my coffee
on your working table.
The manuscript that you were finishing
flinched, yelled, bled painfully
then stared at me accusingly
doubting your existence which is
gracefully drowning in the fatal glow
of left-overs and world dropping dead.
Perhaps, after a long time,
your heart will take its beat tonight.
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 5:13 PM UTC
Dearest.
I had spilt my coffee
on your working table.
The manuscript that you were finishing
flinched, yelled, bled painfully
then stared at me accusingly
doubting your existence which is
gracefully drowning in the fatal glow
of left-overs and world dropping dead.
Perhaps, after a long time,
your heart will take its beat tonight.
Request permission to use this poem